


A Look From You and I Would Fall from Grace

by nu_breed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-23
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 10:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nu_breed/pseuds/nu_breed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tuesday in Broward County sucked beyond the telling of it, but Wednesday is a thousand times worse and Sam isn't waking up to find his brother alive, not this time. The Trickster's out there, and there are people who need him, but Sam's hell-bent on a path of self-destruction and desperate to hold onto Dean in every way he possibly can. Even if it means sacrificing himself in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He doesn't get rid of the body straight away. Just sits Dean in the passenger seat and starts driving.

It amazes Sam how quickly Dean's body is ceasing to be _him_. It's cold and dead, and he can feel his brother slipping away from him more and more every second. Pretty soon he’ll just be a _thing_ , an empty vessel, and Sam really doesn't think he's ready for that. Not yet.

Sam reaches into the glove compartment and sticks the first tape he grabs into the player. It's unlabeled, one of Dean's crapass, cock-rock mixtapes and with Jani Lane warbling about _Heaven_ , an irony that’s inescapable, he takes the first right out of Broward County.

When the opening chords of track three start up and Sam realizes it's Heat of the Moment, he hits eject and throws the damn thing out the window. It's too late though. It’s cemented in his brain like _Bad Medicine_ , which he was murdering at his dorm's karaoke party the night he met Jess, and _Welcome to the Black Parade_ which was playing on his iPod the night Dean came back from whatever seedy bar he was drinking at, pulled him in and kissed him for the first time.

Sam glances over at Dean, at his body. One look at that mouth and he swears he can still feel the imprint of those lips on his. He can still remember the taste, masked by cigarettes and whiskey but underneath it all, Dean.

Sam knows if he kissed Dean now, though, his lips wouldn't be soft and warm and pliant. They'd be cool, immobile. He tries to grip the steering wheel tight but his hands slip, Dean's blood on his hands smearing the leather and he can't help himself. He cries fat, wet tears that drip down his face.

Dean's always ragged him about the crying. Not that Sam cries very often, but he's always been a messy crier. Tears and snot and noisy sobbing; not manly, silent tears like Dean and his father. Sam can remember how the two of them used to cry every time November 2nd rolled around, with their silent, clean, masculine pain.

"Real men cry, Sammy," he remembers Dean saying when Sam'd turned ten, "they just don't make a big song and dance about it, y'know?"

Sam had nodded and buried his face in his pillow till the pillowcase was soaked. He hadn't wanted Dean to think he wasn't a real man.

But Sam's the only one left now and he can cry as loud and as messy as he wants to, so he does. He parks on the side of the road and sobs so hard he can't breathe, sobs for ten minutes or so and then just... stops. When he swallows, he can taste it – the tears, the pain -- and he wonders when he looks at his brother's blood-soaked, lifeless corpse beside him, if this is going to be the last time he'll cry over Dean. If this'll be the last time he'll cry over anything ever again.

It very well could be. Sam doesn't feel much of anything anymore.

***

Ruby turns up at his motel room on Thursday night. She doesn't even blink when he asks her to help him brand Dean's amulet into his lower back before they incinerate the body.

Sam lifts it from around Dean's neck and presses it into Ruby's hand. He tries not to let his fingers skim across Dean's skin while he's pulling the amulet off. He doesn't succeed and the touch is like a jolt that goes right through him, reminds him of what Dean felt like under his hands.

Like he could ever forget.

He takes a few seconds, watches the way the flames dance upwards from the bonfire, and pulls his t-shirt off. The night air bites at his skin, leaves gooseflesh, but he can feel the heat radiating from the pyre and shivers when he thinks about how much it's going to burn.

"Here," Ruby undoes her belt, pulls it out of the loops and hands it to Sam. "You'll need this. For the pain."

"No." Sam pushes her hand away, shakes his head. He lies facedown on the ground and turns his head to the side, watching as her expression goes cloudy. "I wanna feel it."

She shrugs, dangles the amulet into the fire for what feels like forever. Straddling his hips, Ruby's fingers skate the scar Jake left him with, the scar that Dean damned himself for. It stings, tingles, itches like fuck, while her other hand presses the amulet hard into the small of his back, searing his skin.

The branding doesn't hurt. Not one bit. It should, should hurt like a fucking bitch and he doesn't know what to make of the fact that it doesn't. Ruby raises an eyebrow, and he can see she knows exactly what's going through his head. He doesn't want to know what she has to say about it, either.

He gets up and pulls his shirt back on. That should hurt too. It seems unfair to Sam that it doesn't.

Sam watches as Dean's body goes up in flames and he can't stop the tears streaming down his face. It's different now, though, silent and clean. He doesn't feel sad, either, he's just... numb. All the way down to his bones.

Ruby tells him the Trickster's been sighted in Atlanta. He thanks her and leaves, ignoring her rushed, "Sam? You want some company?"

He doesn't want to be rude, but he'd rather gut her with her own knife.

***

He misses the Trickster, but finds a succubus in its wake, and after he wastes the thing, he unwinds with Jäger shots at the nearest dive bar. He orders four shots each round and only drinks two of them. It burns on its way down, and Sam can't remember when he last ate. Might've been the coffee and Danish he had in Savannah, but he can't be sure.

"You drinking alone?" The bartender grins at him, "or are those for me?"

Sam shakes his head. "Sorry. They're for someone else."

"I'll bet." She's leaning forward, smoky eyeliner making her look even more like sin, tube top hugging her breasts. Sam has to force himself to look away.

"I get off in ten minutes," she whispers.

He fucks her behind the dumpster outside. Her name's Cindy and she looks a lot like Jess. Tall, blonde with tiny moles on her face and a waist so small he feels like he might break her when he pushes inside.

She asks him about his scars, and he slams into her. Fucks her harder. That way she won't have the breath to ask him any more questions he doesn't want to answer.

When she comes he realizes she isn't like Jess at all. Cindy is Dean's type. What used to be his type. Sam thinks about how Dean would've fucked her, whether it would've been like this, her skirt pushed up and her ankles locked around his back, or whether he would've pushed her facedown on a motel bed, like he used to do to Sam.

Sam comes fast and mutters a 'thank you' under his breath. Tries to pretend it isn't the image of Dean the night they got into Broward, the sense memory of the carpet scratching his knees, and Dean's fingers digging into his hips, that gets Sam off so fast.

He walks away, doesn't look back. Just leaves her there and stumbles his way back to the bar, throws up in the nearest trashcan. She's the first Sam's had since... just since. Feels like it's been years, but it's only been two days.

***

He dreams that night. He's facedown on the backseat of the Impala and Dean's kissing the back of his neck, tracing a long line down Sam's spine with his tongue.

When he reaches the brand he stops, runs his fingers over it and whispers, "You do this because of me, Sammy?"

Sam nods. "Had to." Dean traces the outline of the brand with his lips, and Sam whimpers, has to stop himself from grinding his cock against the seat. He wants this to last. "Wanted something I could touch. Touch and think of you. Couldn't keep the amulet, though. Hurt too much."

Dean sighs against Sam's lower back and Sam can feel warm breath ghosting over the leathery patch of skin. It makes him want to rub against Dean like a fucking cat in heat, get Dean's scent all over him so he never has to forget what he smells like.

"Want you, Dean. Need you in me. Need to remember..." Sam's voice sounds like someone else's. It's raspy and low, and desperate and Sam almost can't stand to be like this, but he can't bring himself to care.

Dean laughs, once, but there's no humor in it. He just sounds hollow and sad. He flips Sam over and shakes his head, careful, deliberate. Dean kisses him, deep and slow, like he's taking his time exploring Sam's mouth again, relearning his taste.

"Time to go, Sammy. You can't stay. You know that."

"But," Sam starts.

"No." Dean's voice is firm, just like John's when Sam used to argue with him, and isn't that an awkward thought to be having right now? "You have to, Sam. I need to sleep now, and you have to wake up. There are people who still need you."

Sam wants to yell at him, hit him, tell him that he doesn't care who needs him, but he's blinking awake to the sound of some annoyingly perky breakfast DJ and he's hard as hell.

Alone.

He tries everything he can think of to go back to sleep, to pretend it isn't over. Squeezes his eyes shut, prays, tries an old meditation trick he picked up at Stanford, but no dice.

He's wide awake, and Dean's gone and it's all completely fucking pointless.

Sam's insanely thirsty, so he drinks from the glass of water at his bedside. He gets up, makes his bed with crisp, hospital corners, and walks to the bathroom, the carpet rough against the soles of his feet. Steps under the steaming heat of the shower, jerks off with the water hitting his brand, and bites down on the name he so desperately wants to cry out when he comes.

***

Bobby arrives two hours later. Sam hasn't spoken to him since before Broward, and part of him feels bad for not being on the phone to him as soon as Dean's heart stopped pumping. After all, Bobby's the closest thing to a father they, _he_ , has, but these last few days have been about him and Dean, and he wasn't willing to share that with anyone else. Not even Bobby.

"You want coffee?" Sam turns away, anything to ignore the look Bobby's giving him. He's seen that look before, on his father's face. Disappointment.

"Coffee? Nah. If you've got some whiskey, though..."

Sam nods. Makes for the table and the half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. Dean's favorite, and Sam's lost count of the number of times they'd held each other up after far too many rounds, when Dean'd had a particularly successful night of hustling pool. Remembers how it tasted too, the bitter tang of Johnnie on Dean's tongue and lips as he kissed Sam breathless.

He pours himself a shot and one for Bobby and sits down at the table, rubbing his forehead.

"Black label, Sam? At ten o'clock in the morning?" Bobby's expression looks like disapproval, and Sam should've known Bobby was being a sneaky fucker and testing him. "You really are takin' after your brother." Bobby shakes his head and Sam feels about eight years old. "Found him in a similar state a few months ago, myself, y'know."

Sam blinks. Looks down at the stains at the carpet, the names etched into the table, anything to avoid Bobby's eyes.

"I. I wanted to call, Bobby. I just. I couldn't."

Bobby reaches out, squeezes Sam's shoulder. "I know, kid. But how d'ya think it felt to find out on my own?"

Sam nods. Chucks his shot back and wipes his mouth with his hand. He feels the alcohol burn through his chest, waking him up, making him focus. It narrows everything down to here and now. Allows him to take his mind off the dreams he can't control, and the things he no longer has in reality. Even if it is just for a minute or two.

He isn't capable of forgetting Dean for much longer than that.

Bobby pulls him into a hug, murmurs things like: "So sorry, son," and, "Dean was something special," and, "Your daddy's watching over him. You know that."

But all Sam knows is that that’s bullshit, that Bobby knows it too. Knows Dean isn't with his Dad at all. Dean's burning, in pain, suffering torment on top of torment and it's all his fault. Nobody else to blame for that damn Trickster's morbid sense of humor. Sam's struck with a desire to tear the fucker limb from limb, demi-god or not. Do it, or die trying.

"The Trickster," he says, his thumbnail picking at a gouge in the tabletop. "Where do I find him?"

"Y'don't." Bobby's eyes narrow. "Not yet. Not like this, Sam. The last thing I want is to watch you go off on some half-cocked damn fool Winchester suicide mission." He downs his own shot and stares Sam right in the eyes when he sets down his glass.

"Bobby," Sam's voice goes deep and electric, cracking like a warning.

"You're not your daddy, Sam, and you're not Dean. I always said you had more sense."

Well, I don't, he wants to say. Not anymore. I can't do this alone. Just can't.

_Yeah, well I don't want to._

Instead he just nods, and says, "Lay off the Trickster. Got it."

Bobby's eyes narrow. If it'd been Dean, Bobby wouldn't've believed it for a second. But Dean was always a terrible liar, and Sam's always been the convincing one. All it takes is a lopsided grin and a hint of sincerity, and Bobby's folding just like anyone else would. Just like a deck of playing cards.

"Anyway, if you're really itching for a hunt, there's a demon running a whorehouse in Memphis." He pauses, grin spreading across his aging face. "So I've heard."

Sam can almost hear his brother groaning in protest at having to miss out. If any case was ever handmade for Dean, it's this one.

***

Sam doesn't dream that night. He hovers on the edge of sleep for hours; alcohol and grief buzzing around in his brain and he's aware of everything around him: the insects singing in the trees, the awful, cloying heat, sheets strapped like restraints across him, and the dull thud-thud of his heart.

It's the universe's way of fucking with him, and part of him wonders if the Trickster's somewhere watching, laughing at him for being the fool who can’t move _past_ all of it, stuck in wakefulness, instead of where he wants to be, holding onto his brother in dreams.

Sam turns on his side; right, then left. The digits on the alarm clock keep changing. He could've sworn it was 3.30 an hour ago. He toys with the idea of getting up and draining the whiskey bottle dry, drinking himself into a coma because maybe then he'd at least get some fucking sleep. Problem is, that would entail moving, and he's so damn tired he can't even be bothered getting out of bed.

At least he can use the ever-present stolen prescription pad to get himself some pills. That'll help. He can't deal with too many nights like this; lack of sleep, the lack of _Dean_ , it all makes his gut ache.

He finally drifts off at around five, the sky just turning a runny blue, but his sleep is restless and he wakes an hour later with a bitter taste in his mouth, and an ache in the pit of his stomach he knows he won't be able to shake.

***

Sam hits the case Bobby mentioned. Something to preoccupy himself with other than sitting around the motel room, counting ceiling tiles, pretending to sleep.

The Blue Door is an old-fashioned brothel. All oak furniture and red velvet cushions, girls dressed in classy lingerie. The subtitle on the business cards reads "Gentlemen’s Club" and Sam wonders why these places bother trying to hide exactly what they are. He knows why of course. There’s always the illegality, but there’s also the guilt and the shame; fine pillars of any society.

Sam's perspective's a little different, though. He remembers when Jess started volunteering at the Prostitute's Collective, remembers some of the workers she introduced him to. Like Beth, the girl that could've passed for a Stanford grad any day and Ryan, the wise-ass methhead who reminded Sam a little too much of Dean. Once Jess'd got through with him, whoring didn't have any mystique, and it wasn't taboo, either.

So standing there at the bar, seeing the girls swarming around the mostly pathetic, buttoned-down types, Sam can’t feel embarrassed. He feels _empty_. Just like he always has since he dropped the match and watched his brother burn.

Hunting had never been _fun_ , but it used to be exhilarating, at least. Sam never got the hard-on for it that Dean did, it wasn't his reason for getting out of bed in the morning, but it used to matter. Now it seems like he may as well be punching a card. Without Dean it’s so completely pointless. Much like everything else.

The woman approaching him is cute, Sam thinks abstractly. Petite and pretty, a perfect ass, the kind Dean would talk about for hours, whether Sam wanted to hear about it or not.

_Especially_ if he didn't.

"Hey, darlin'," she drawls, one finger tracing up and down Sam's arm, "I'm Stacey. You see something you like?"

Sam grins. "I like you," he whispers in her ear, laying on the fake charm as thick as he can manage without making himself ill, "but what I'd really like is for you to take me to see your boss."

Her eyes widen, and the confident sexuality is replaced second by second with nerves and fear.

"I. I don't think I can do that," she stammers. She picks at the fraying edge of her slip, avoids his eyes.

"Aw, c'mon." Sam brushes her cheek with his thumb, curl of her hair as he slides it away, tilting her chin up so she's meeting his gaze. "I won't get you into trouble, I swear." He’s got a fifty in his other hand, folds it gently into her palm. "Just tell me where she is and you can pretend you never saw me."

The demon's in the office upstairs and Sam subdues her quickly before she realizes who she's dealing with. He throws holy water in her face, and as she's screaming, bellowing obscenities, he presses his crucifix into her barely-covered chest. She hisses at him as she writhes on the floor in pain, head tipped back, her hands desperately flailing as she tries to claw at him.

"Dean says Hi," she grinds out. "He's very popular, Sam. Hundreds of us waiting to get our hands on him. And in him." She looks up at him, a sick smile smeared across her face despite the pain, eyes black as pitch. "We will, you know," she hisses, "he's got forever. Then there's you. Filthy little traitor. We can't wait for you to come and visit. Maybe we'll make you watch while we peel the skin from your brother's body."

"Shut up," Sam says. Closes his eyes and tries to get the image of Dean screaming out of his head. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus-"

"Come on, Sam. Not hurting anyone here, right? Don't make me go back there. Please."

Bargaining. Pleading. Her voice is strained, hoarse from screaming, the fear and pain threaded through every syllable, but there’s not a single inch of him that can feel sorry for her.

Because Dean. Dean is being ripped apart by all of them. Dean is being burned and flayed and ravished and if Sam can't stop it he's going to do the only thing he can. He's going to send the bitch back down there, screaming and kicking and fighting him all the way.

"You took my brother," he spits, "I don't owe you a goddamn thing. Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta..."

"See you down there, _Sammy_ ," she hisses and it's all over, black smoke spewing out of her mouth.

Sam doesn't wait to see if the woman, Catherine, he thinks her name is, is okay. He leaves her there on the floor, gasping for breath and trying to clamber to her knees.

The first thing he does when he leaves The Blue Door is make a call. If it were up to him, he'd have nothing to do with _her_ , but as it stands he needs her help.

"Sam. How did you get this number? Not that I'm complaining of course, lovely to hear from you as always."

Smug fucking bitch. Sam can feel his jaw flexing under the strain of even hearing her perky, bright voice.

"Cut the shit, Bela." Sam's voice sounds like he feels, and it drives him nuts that she gets to him like this, every fucking time. "I need some dreamroot. Enough for a month. Can you get it for me, or not?"

"I'll see what I can do." She pauses. "Sam? I'm..."

He can hear the pity in her voice and it makes him think about his hand around her neck. Squeezing. After all, if the bitch hadn't double-crossed them, hadn't stolen the Colt, then he and Dean would've never been in Broward County in the first place. And if they hadn't made it there, well, a guy could go crazy thinking like that. But he’d rather cut out his own heart than hear her worthless apologies.

Sam inhales sharply through his nose.

"Don't say it, Bela. Just don't." He's aiming for a warning, but he can't keep the waver out of his voice, and he hates himself for that. It makes him feel weak and useless and desperate and the last thing he needs is Bela fucking Talbot knowing how truly pathetic and totally out of control he is these days.

"Fair enough," she says chirpily. "Give me 24 hours. Where shall I meet you?"

"Dallas. I'll call you when I get there."

He quickly disconnects, and it’s satisfying being the one to hang up. He imagines Bela, open-mouthed, shocked that anyone would dare. It makes him smile for the first time in weeks.

***

Bela always looks completely out of place in motel rooms. Itchy and uncomfortable and like she'd rather be anywhere else. But he really couldn't care less that she's sullying herself by being there, subjecting herself to the dust and grime, the potential injury to her French tips.

"It's good to see you, Sam." She sits down on the bed opposite his, looking tired. There are creases around her eyes and mouth, and in this light, it's obvious to Sam that she's older than she’d like anyone to believe. Either that, or being on her own, drowning in her own bitterness is aging her. Either way, she’s less beautiful, and Sam finds a certain irony in that.

Can’t help but wonder if that's what's going to happen to him, too.

Sam snorts. "We’re not here to catch up like old friends. This is business, Bela. That's all. If you're expecting a hug or something..." he trails off, and ignores the derisive smirk he gets in response.

"Come now, sweetie, no need to be nasty. I did what you asked, after all." She pushes a strand of hair back from her face and throws a Ziploc bag at him, filled with what looks like dreamroot.

"Where's the Colt?" Sam asks, voice strained, picking up the bag and inspecting the contents. No doubt about it. Dreamroot. He'd recognize the revolting smell anywhere.

"Now, now, love. You didn't ask me here to talk about the Colt." She inspects her nails, then looks up at Sam, grinning with blood-red lips and bone-white teeth. "You can have it for half a million, though."

Sam can feel his jaw flex. His fingernails dig into his palms, the bite of it about the only thing stopping him from reaching across the table and slapping the smug smile off her face. Sam's never wanted to hit a woman before, not a human one anyway. Bela though? He's met nicer demons.

"Oh don't look so grumpy, Sammy. That's a bargain."

And no. Just... fucking _no_.

"Bela?" He manages to get out through gritted teeth, "if you want to keep your head on your shoulders, that'll be the last time you _ever_ call me that."

She bites her lip, and it's momentarily satisfying to know he's scored a hit, but the exhilaration's tainted with images; scenes he can play in his head like a goddamn movie. Sense memory's a bitch, and he doesn't think he'll ever be able to erase Dean's voice from his head, every time he hears someone else call him Sammy.

"I'm sorry. I really am." Her eyes are sad and Sam has to look away, because he thinks this is probably the most honest she's ever been, and he can't afford to start believing she’s human, has a heart.

Bela clears her throat and stands up, smoothing down her skirt. "Think what you want of me, Sam, but I did care about your brother. He was rather special. Do tell him that when you see him, won't you?"

She's out the door before it even clicks with him that she never asked him to pay for the dreamroot.

He thinks he hates her even more for that.

***

Sam's always cared about routine. Lately he's been slipping, but tonight's important. He wants to do it right.

He has dinner at a good steakhouse. It's more money than he can probably afford, but he doesn't care. He orders a couple of porterhouses; one rare and one medium. They come with mushroom sauce and baked potatoes with a side of crisp steamed broccoli, carrots and peas. The waiter doesn't ask who the other steak is for, and Sam turns down the takeaway box they offer him at the end of the meal.

He shells out for a bottle of good scotch on his way back to the motel room. He sits in the dark, has a couple of glasses, neat, before he strips down to his boxers, sits on the edge of his bed and downs the dreamroot.

He blinks, and when he opens his eyes he's aware of someone knocking on the door. Fists pounding hard and frantic, and by the time he gets to it, it stops.

Sam opens the door anyway, but of course when he opens it, he's somewhere else entirely. He's facing a long, thin hallway with doors on either side. In fact, it looks exactly like the hallway from Freeman High in Nebraska. The place he graduated from and never ever wanted to see again.

The bell rings, and the hallway crowds with kids. Sam gets a good look at them as they swarm past him, and, okay. Not kids. Demons.

Ruby comes jogging up to him. She's in a cheerleading skirt, which is barely covering her ass, sweater stretched tight across her chest. Broad space between the F and H. Her hair’s pulled back in a ponytail, black and silver pom-poms in her hands. Sam doesn't even want to think about why his psyche's dreamed up an image as disturbing as this.

"You coming, Sam? You're gonna be late for class!"

"I. Class?"

"Yeah, c'mon," she grabs his arm and drags him towards the first closed door, "you don't want to miss this one."

Ruby opens the door, and pushes him through it. The door shuts behind him and he hears a key in the lock. He tries to open it, but it won't budge. Awesome.

Sam turns around, slowly. The classroom's empty, except for one person. Dean. He's sitting at the teacher's desk, feet up, ankles crossed, eating an apple. It's crawling with maggots.

"Seriously, dude, the food here? Not so good. Can't even find a decent cheeseburger." He drops the apple to the ground and it disintegrates.

Sam can feel his chest seize up. Dean’s in front of him, _Dean_ , and Sam doesn't care if it's a dream or not because it feels so goddamn real. He walks over and drops to his knees.

"Assuming the position already, Sam?" Dean smirks and swivels to face him, "I like it."

"Shut up," Sam says, with no real weight. He grins and adds, "It's really good to see you, jerk."

Dean looks good. He looks really, really good, and Sam can't help but reach out and palm his cheek once, watching as Dean's eyes close.

"Of course it is," Dean says after a few long seconds and hoists himself up onto the desk, legs swinging back and forth. Dean's always been a fidgeter and it usually drives Sam completely fucking nuts. But Sam doesn't care about anything so small and stupid now. Dean's here, and he can do whatever the hell he wants to because all Sam cares about is the fact that when he reaches out, he can feel Dean's skin under his fingertips; warm and alive and it feels so fucking good he can't even breathe.

"I heard you took yourself to dinner before," Dean says, thumbing Sam's bottom lip, "steak and whiskey, preparing yourself like a virgin on her wedding night."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Very funny."

" _I_ thought so. Because seriously, Sammy?" Dean coaxes Sam up, one hand on the back of his neck, "You ain't no fuckin' virgin."

Dean kisses him then, one hand grabbing his hair and the other at his waist, and Sam just melts into him as Dean drops his hands to Sam's ass and grinds him against his own crotch. His mouth is so warm, and Sam's missed this so much that he can't help groaning like a little bitch. He couldn't care less if Dean teases him about it for an eternity, either.

"Miss you," Sam says when he pulls away. "Feels like a fucking hole in me."

"I know," Dean whispers against his neck, low and soothing. "I know, Sam."

Sam looks at him then, really looks at him and he can see Dean's arms are blemished with scars. They look like burns and they're everywhere-- his arms, his neck, his pretty, pretty face.

"Does it hurt?" Sam skates the tips of his fingers over them. He can't believe he didn't notice them before.

"Nah." Dean looks away. "Feels like fucking velvet on my skin. What's a bit of hellfire gonna do to me, huh?"

Sam can taste bile at the back of his throat. "I wish I could've saved you from this."

"Yeah, well you couldn't and you can't." Dean's voice is firm. "So stop feeling so damned guilty about it, will ya? Damn emo-princess."

Sam still feels his stomach twisting in knots, but he laughs anyway. He thinks he's missed this the most. The banter, the bitching and the unending feeling that whenever Dean says this kind of shit, that he's really saying 'sorry' or 'I love you’.

The bell rings, and Ruby's yelling at Sam, something about class being over.

He ignores the bell, and her. He kisses Dean again, and everything starts to flicker, like someone's flipping a lightswitch on and off. The room begins to fade, and so does Dean.

"No," Sam begs, "not yet. I haven't. I'm not ready... Dean?!"

"Same time, same place, Sasquatch," Dean says, and Sam wakes up. His fingers are twisted in the bedspread, like he’s trying to hold on.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam gets an email from Tamara, which has all the usual 'sorry to hear about your brother, he was a good hunter' bullshit. Stuff that makes his teeth ache. He's much more interested in the rest of her email, giving him the dates and co-ordinates he needs to track down the Trickster.

_They'll tell you not to go after him yet, that you need time, that vengeance isn't healthy. But I say fuck that. They've forgotten what it's like to lose family like you and I have, Sam. You need this. Good luck._

He's not sure how he should react. Deep-down he knows he should be doing everything he can to find the sick fuck, but there's a part of him that just wants to give up, and that part gets stronger, more insistent every day. The part that tells him to retreat into a bottle, his dreams, whatever he can do to bring him closer to Dean. At least when he's asleep he can feel again, when he's awake he feels like a shell and nothing else.

It's just as he feared when Dean first told him about the Crossroads deal. Sam's nothing without him.

He drives for nearly fifteen hours straight, cityscape finally coming into view. Chicago. If he's honest with himself, he doesn't even remember how he ended up there, or why. Just got in the car and kept driving, through Arkansas and parts of Illinois, completely on autopilot, listening to mundane easy-listening track after easy-listening track. Was enough to make him want to drive himself and Dean's baby off a cliff. Fortunately for him, Illinois was kind of short on those.

Sam showers after he checks into the motel. The water pressure's good for a change, and he can feel it against his aching muscles, cajoling them to relax. He spends so long in the shower he feels vaguely faint and has to sit on the bed, naked, his head in his hands until he regains some balance.

When the room's stopped spinning, he puts on his good jeans and one of his clean tees. He pads out to the bathroom on bare feet, and brushes his teeth. He's still using that disgusting bubblegum flavor; last one Dean bought, because he can't bring himself to replace it with anything else. 

It's one of the only things he has left of Dean, after all. 

Reminds Sam of the mornings Dean'd kiss him after he'd brushed his teeth; just because he knew how much Sam hated the stupid stuff. Sam would bitch and moan at him for being a fucking child, but Dean wouldn't listen, he'd just suck Sam's tongue into his mouth and put his hands on top of Sam's on the counter, holding him in place. Sometimes Dean would turn Sam around to face the bathroom mirror, drop to his knees and make Sam watch himself as Dean brought him to orgasm, slow and perfect. 

When Sam looks in the mirror now though, he's a little shocked by what he sees. He's practically swimming in his t-shirt now. Thin in the waist, the hips, even his shoulders seem less… broad. Dead brother equals instant weight loss; he could market that one all over.

The bar he heads for is one he's been to before, the last time he and Dean were in Chicago. Vamp case. Seemed the vampire had a thing for pretty boys. Sam wasn't looking then, but he’s certainly looking now.

Sam's head is down as he walks in, and he goes straight for the bar. The loud thump-thump of the heavy bass reverberates off every surface, much like a heartbeat. The bar's crowded, no chance of a seat and Sam doesn't fancy his chances of getting a drink anytime in the next hour.

"Sometimes I wonder why I don't just drink at home."

The guy next to him is tall, maybe only a couple of inches shorter than Sam, tanned, leather jacket and close cropped dark blond hair.

"Yeah," Sam says, ducking his head and grinning. "Sometimes the wait's worth it, though, right?"

The guy laughs, deep and throaty and throws his head back. His neck is gorgeous and Sam can't help but stare.

"I'm Ben," he says, putting out his hand. It’s warm and firm in Sam’s and Sam feels like the world's biggest traitor every time he does this; up until now, though, it's only been random bar-tramps, waitresses. This is different, and he feels like he's shitting on Dean's memory. Thing is, he can't help it; he needs... needs to feel something warm. Something tangible. Needs to feel it in the morning. A reminder that he's still breathing, because sometimes he really wonders if he is. He wonders if he still _should_.

"I'm." Sam swallows, and his throat's parched. "Screw it. You, uh, want to get out of here?"

Ben's eyes flick over Sam's body and he nods, slow and deliberate. "Yeah. Sure. We can do that."

He leans in, and Sam steps back, turns his head away. "I don't kiss. Not on the mouth. No offense or anything, just. I can't."

Kissing crosses a line. Kissing is intimate, and Sam doesn't want to be intimate. Can't be. He just wants to, needs to, get fucked.

Ben nods. "I get it. No names and no kissing. Boyfriend, huh?"

"Yeah. Sure. Something like that." Sam bows his head and can feel the flush staining his cheeks. Doesn't know how well _"Actually, no. My brother used to kiss like a fucking pro; long and slow and wet. He'd make it last for hours, till I was begging like a bitch for him to touch me. But he's dead now, and I really need someone to fuck me so I can try and forget him for like ten fucking minutes"_ would go over.

Ben has an apartment downtown, and Sam drives them there. They don't talk on the way, and Sam just keeps his eyes on the road, though he can feel Ben's eyes on him and it makes him feel cocky as hell. Thankfully, they have a good run of the lights, so it doesn't take long till they're there and Ben's directing Sam to park in the secure underground lot.

"Car like this'd be thief fodder if you park anywhere else. It's a beauty. You had it long?"

Sam's chest aches. He wishes he hadn't picked up someone who's asking questions he doesn't want to answer. Ben seems like a nice guy, but Sam really doesn't want to chat, especially about Dean's car, and he suddenly wishes the guy was on his knees with Sam's cock down his throat.

They take the elevator to the third floor, and Sam's half thrumming with anticipation, while simultaneously wishing he were anywhere else. He could be home in bed, tripping on dreamroot right now, wrapped around Dean and he doesn't even know why he did this. Must've been out of his goddamn mind.

Ben opens the door and drags Sam inside, pushes him up against the wall. Ben's hard, and Sam can feel his own cock twitching in response. Ben also has big, strong hands that seem to want to touch him everywhere, and Sam throws back his head, bites his lower lip as Ben's hands map his body.

Sam's missed this. Hard and firm instead of soft and pliant, and Sam can't wait for Ben to get inside him; by the feel of Ben's cock, Sam's going to be feeling it when the night's over.

"You don't want to be kissed," Ben breathes into Sam's neck, one hand rubbing Sam's cock through his jeans. "So what do you want?"

"Want you to fuck me," Sam whispers, his teeth grazing Ben's ear. "Hard. So I’ll remember it tomorrow. Okay with you?"

"Yeah." Ben's mouth curls into a smile, slow and dirty. He grabs at Sam's belt and undoes it, unzips Sam's jeans and pulls them down past his hips, never taking his eyes off Sam for a second. "Yeah. I can definitely work with that."

***

Sam gets back to the motel around five. He aches everywhere; thighs and ass and jaw and wrists and he has bruises on his neck, hips, and collarbone. He's completely fucked out.

There’s no other thought in his mind but sleep. Contemplates just crashing on the bed, but he can't do that. Can't ignore the fact that Dean's waiting for him, and he's been thinking about him all night, thinking about being with him the whole time Ben was fucking him. When Sam was down on his knees all he had to do was close his eyes and he'd see Dean, standing right in front of him.

He's addicted, and he doesn't want to think about what the fuck he's going to do when he runs out of dreamroot. What it'll mean for him. Whether he'll ever see Dean again, or if he'll fade away like an old photograph, or a drunken memory.

The dreamroot never tastes any less like shit, no matter how many times he's had it and he can feel himself retching as the putrid liquid works its way down his throat, bitter and viscous. Worth it, though. He'd heard Becky once, talking about the bitter nasal drip that comes after doing a line of coke, that that's how you know once it's worked its way down, something really fucking good always comes with something really fucking awful. Price of life.

Words like junkie, addict. They echo through Sam’s mind, and he can't bring himself to care.

He pulls Dean's jacket out from under his pillow, breathes in the scent of sweat and leather and beer and DeanDeanDean. Tries not to think about how fucking pathetic or screwed-up it makes him, smelling his dead brother's clothes, getting ridiculously turned on just by the smell of him. Instead, Sam just closes his eyes and clutches the jacket tighter, following the ghost of his brother's memory into sleep.

***

Sam's eyelids are heavy and when he opens them, it takes him a good couple of minutes to adjust. He cleans the dust out of the corner of both eyes and sits up slowly, his body still not with the party after a rough night of sex and alcohol. It takes him a minute or two to realize that he isn't clutching Dean's leather jacket anymore, but a folded up piece of paper.

It's a boarding pass. 

Sam stands up slow and careful on heavy legs and heads for the door. Of course, when he opens it, he's not standing on the threshold of his motel room, but on a landing strip. There's a 737 at the end of the runway, and Ruby’s standing at the bottom of the steps, waving to him.

Ruby's wearing a stewardess's uniform. Cheerleader. Stewardess. Next she'll be a nun.

"Yeah, sure, sport. I'd sooner be exorcised than have this fine body stuck in a penguin suit." Sam rolls his eyes and starts to push past her, but she grabs his arm and looks up at him with black eyes, saying, "Haven't you forgotten something?"

"Forgotten something?" Sam squints, trying to work out what he could have possibly forgotten.

"Your boarding pass, braintrust?" She holds out her hand, and he hands her the ticket. "Seriously, I thought you were supposed to be the smart one?"

Sam just shrugs and makes his way up the stairs.

The plane is almost entirely populated by demons, and it makes his skin crawl, but Sam can't help staring at them as he walks through the cabin. He's flying coach, which doesn't seem fair since he was supposed to be their _leader_ and all. The least Ruby could've done was bump him up to Business Class.  
"No freaking way," she says from behind him. "You gave up your privileges quite some time ago, champ. That way."

She points him towards the last row in the cabin, where Dean is sitting, knocking back a plastic tumbler of what looks like bourbon or whiskey on ice.

"Oh Sam, thank God." He grips Sam's arm so hard, Sam can feel Dean's fingernails digging into his skin and he can't help the shiver that goes through him. "Can you please tell that bitch Ruby that I need another six or so of these babies? She's cut me off."

Ruby's voice comes over the loudspeaker. "I trust everyone is comfortable. Would the dead, human, pain-in-my-ass in row J please shut the fuck up? This isn't a bar, and if you don't stop your whining, Dean Winchester, I will rip your spine out through your fucking throat!"

"Demons have such rotten tempers," Dean complains, crunching on an ice cube from the bottom of his cup. "Also? Don't order a Bloody Mary." He shudders. "Trust me."

Sam opens his mouth to speak, but Dean interrupts him, "Oh, and stay away from the food too. Personally, I'd rather be skinned alive. Probably will be too, ha!" 

Sam grimaces and turns away from him for a minute. Ruby and another flight attendant are distributing meals throughout the cabin. He can only imagine how revolting the food is; airplane food on a demon airliner. Bound to taste like hell. Literally.

He flinches when he feels Dean touching the side of his neck, his fingers pressing into one of the bruises there.

"Where'd you get that?" Dean's voice is rough, hint of something that makes Sam's stomach flip.

"I'm sorry." Sam turns back to face him, "I needed to."

"Needed to, huh?" Dean nods. "Yeah, well. I've got marks too, Sammy. See?"

Dean pulls his t-shirt up. His torso is marred with long, thick, raised scars. A whip, Sam guesses. He can just see it; Dean tied down, the lash biting into him and him taking it, not even screaming. Just getting that look in his eye that says, 'Okay assholes. Do your worst.' In the beginning, anyway. Sam doesn't want to think about what happens once the pain's too much to bear and Dean's flesh gets torn open time and time again for all eternity. He can feel his stomach turn over at the thought.

"I'm sorry," Sam repeats, trying to keep his voice from wavering. "I just wanted to feel something other than death. Emptiness. Whatever. I didn't think you'd care." He knows it's a lie as soon as it's out of his mouth and he isn't surprised when Dean's eyes flare with anger and something else that’s just as intense. It makes Sam's stomach pitch and roll, liquid heat spreading. Makes him want to drop to his knees right there and make it up to him, Dean’s head tipped back, fingers clawing through his hair. 

"Bathroom. Now." Dean's hand is on Sam's shoulder, fisting his shirt and gripping tight.

"I." Sam looks at the tiny door opposite them. No way, doesn’t matter what kind of reality, are they fitting in there. "The mile high club? Are you serious, Dean?"

"Now." 

Dean's voice is practically vibrating and Sam thinks that maybe he shouldn't argue the point. He's going to feel completely claustrophobic in a space like that, but he's too busy feeling so turned on he can barely think. Dean's going all caveman on his ass, and part of him doesn't care. Part of Sam just wants to go with it, and screw the consequences. It's _his_ dream after all, right?

The space between their seats and the bathroom feels like miles. Dean _right there_ behind him, in his space, breathing on the back of his neck and it's too much. Makes the hair on his neck and his arms prickle. Makes him hard.

When Sam opens the door to the bathroom, he's pleasantly surprised to see it's like a TARDIS on the inside. 

"Nice." Dean says, smirk in his voice. "Here's to your subconscious, Sam."

Sam opens his mouth to agree, but he doesn't get a chance because Dean is pushing him face first against the wall, unbuckling Sam's belt, pushing his jeans and boxers down his thighs. 

Dean gets his hands on Sam. One at his hip, fingers digging into the bruises there, the other at Sam's mouth. Dean pushes two fingers past his lips and Sam sucks them all the way down, slow and wet and obscene, scrapes his teeth over them when Dean pulls nearly all the way out. 

"Jesus, you're a slut," Dean groans and fucks Sam's mouth with his fingers. "Tell me, Sam. Tell me what he did to you." 

Sam inhales sharply as Dean yanks his fingers out and moves them to Sam's ass. He rubs them spitslick over Sam's hole for what feels like forever before pushing them in, opening Sam up. 

"I met him in a bar. That one in Chicago we went to on that vamp case. I. Uh--" Sam's voice catches in his throat, pain radiating when Dean gets his other hand in Sam's hair, grabs a handful and pulls his head back. Hard. "I. We went back to his place." Sam manages in a breath.

"Then what?" Dean adds another finger, pushes back in teasingly slow and Sam moans low and throaty. 

"Christ, Dean." Sam can barely breathe, doesn't know how he's still managing to form words. He knows Dean is enjoying this way too much. "I. I asked him to fuck me."

"How did you do it?" Dean licks up the side of Sam's neck, sucks one of the bruises, and digs his teeth in. "Did you ride him? Did he fuck you on your hands and knees? How, Sam?"

Sam may complain about it, but he loves it when Dean's rough like this. Loves it and misses it and he groans his disappointment when Dean pulls his fingers out, but he's not sorry when he hears Dean drop to the ground behind him, and feels him replace his fingers with his tongue.

"Fuck. God. First he pushed me down on the floor. Fucked me there on my hands and knees." Sam groans as he feels Dean's tongue inside him, pushing in deep.

Dean laughs, and Sam can feel warm breath, a wet chuckle. It's all too much, standing there while Dean fucks him up like this. Too much and yet still not enough, and Sam grinds his hips back, tries to get Dean's tongue deeper inside him.

"And then?" Dean asks, muffled.

"Got me on the bed," Sam pants out, "fucked me with his fingers until I couldn't take it anymore."

Dean pulls out, ignores Sam's whimpers, and licks one long stripe up the cleft of Sam's ass, right up to the spot where Sam's brand starts. He gets his mouth on it, lips brushing over the brand before he traces the outline with his tongue; slow and wet and perfect.

"I bet you were begging for it." Dean stands up again, turns Sam to face him. "Did he make you scream, Sammy? Was it like it is with me?"

"No," Sam says, firm and almost angry. "Never. Never like it was with you. I wouldn't let him kiss me, either."

"Good." Dean smiles then and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "'Cause you're mine. Always will be, little brother."

"Possessive bastard," Sam mutters, but he's dropping to his knees and mouthing the outline of Dean's cock through his jeans as Dean's fingers stroke his hair.

There's a harsh knocking on the door and Ruby's yelling through it, "Time to go, Sam. Your sick incest sex-fantasy time is up."

"I fucking hate planes," Dean grumbles. He pulls Sam to his feet and helps him with his pants. Sam's still hard and he hisses when Dean buttons his jeans up, and fastens Sam's belt again. "So not fair," Dean says. "I never get off anymore. Fucking bitch!" Dean yells over his shoulder.

"Oh, _bite me_ , brotherfucker!" Ruby screams back, slamming her fists on the door.

Sam can feel the pull that he's begun to associate with wakefulness and he just shakes his head, whispers, "It's never enough time." 

Dean shrugs, pulls Sam in with a hand on the back of his skull. "Soon, Sam."

Sam can feel Dean's lips ghost against his, and he's gone.

He keeps his eyes closed. He doesn't want to see the fleabag motel room, doesn't want to see the sunlight streaming through the windows. He just lies there with his eyes squeezed shut, one hand reaching inside his boxers and the other clenching Dean's leather jacket, and when Sam comes he bites through his lip to stop himself from throwing up.

***

From Chicago he heads west to Minneapolis. There's a large group of demons who've taken over the Alpha Delta Phi fraternity, and hazing rituals have turned a little more brutal than usual.

Sam knows he should keep going till he gets there, but he gives two shits about a bunch of asshole frat brothers and pledges getting slaughtered, and, well, he'd rather find a place to stay and settle in for the night.

Sam's glad he's been able to avoid Bobby's calls so far. After all, he's gone from wanting to wreak bloody vengeance on the Trickster to not caring about anything other than losing himself in dreams of Dean. He really doesn't want to find out what Bobby would have to say about Sam blowing off hunts, or the fact that he's letting people die because he's so desperate to hang onto his brother.

Not that he ever could, but there is one thing he wishes he was able to talk to Bobby about, though: the bag of dreamroot is dissipating and he gets this panicked, tight feeling in his chest every time he thinks about it. He's still got enough for the remainder of the month, but he doesn't want to run out. He hasn't been able to get a hold of Bela so far, and Bobby'd kick his ass if he ever knew, so he does the only thing he can think of-- he calls Ruby.

She comes right away; she always does. Sometimes he doesn't even have to call and she's on his doorstep.

"Dreamroot?" She crosses her arms, and tilts her head to one side. She always looks like a petulant child when she does that, and Sam hates it. Makes him want to shake her. She's hundreds of years old, not eighteen.

"Yeah." He mimics her stance and they stand there for around five minutes. Not talking, just staring each other down and Sam finds himself thinking of her as she was in his dream. He tries to scrub the image of her as a stewardess out of his head, but he can't. His cock swells as he thinks of her, bending over fixing drinks, her crisp blue uniform riding up and her suspenders and stockings visible. Can't help but imagine her in between him and Dean, the two of them pushing her skirt up and...

She cocks an eyebrow. "Y'know, if you wanted me to appear in your dreams, Sam, all you had to do was ask. I don't need drugs to do it." 

"I don't. God," Sam clenches his jaw. “I can't help that you're a pain in my ass even when I'm asleep. It's not that at all."

"Then what is it?" She moves in closer, glares up at him with black eyes, like that's supposed to scare him. "Oh, I see. Dean."

"I hate it when you do that." Sam means it. He can't stand the way demons get inside of people’s heads, root around in there and take fears, wishes and thoughts without permission. It feels like the worst sort of violation and it makes him want to tell Ruby to get out, to fuck off and never come back again. 

"Oh, I'm sorry," Ruby snipes at him. "Maybe if you actually talked to me, gave me something to go on once in a while, I wouldn't have to root around in there. We're supposed to be on the same side here, Sam."

"Then prove it. Help me."

Ruby looks almost like she pities him, and he can't stand it. ”Sorry, champ. No can-do."

He shuts his eyes and rubs at his forehead, can feel a really nasty headache coming on. He's about to ask her why she won't help, what's so wrong about wanting to hold onto to someone and she was the one who said she could help save Dean in the first place, and...

But when he looks up, she's gone.

***

Sam wakes up to the sound of sirens. He assumes it's police coming for him. They can't get Dean now, but they can still get him and he leaps to his feet and runs to check the door. Opens it carefully and finds himself staring into the busy corridor of a hospital.

Not just any hospital, either. It's the hospital where he watched his brother slip away, the same place he saw his father die.

Ruby is sitting on the counter at the nurses' station. Of course.

"Oh give me a break," Sam murmurs under his breath, "a nurse now?"

She grabs her clipboard and gestures for him to follow her down the hall. "Dude, it's no worse than a _cheerleader_. Do I look like I have pep? Anyway, it's your damaged psyche, don't blame me for the fact you keep ending up in hell."

She pushes him towards the nearest door and leaves him there. He tries to open it, but the handle won't budge. The door's locked. Ruby smirks and takes off in the other direction.

"Thanks, Ruby!" Sam yells, livid, his voice reverberating off the thin walls of the hospital. A small piece of plaster cracks and falls. "You've been really fucking helpful."

"Screw you!" she throws back cheerily.

Sam wonders whatever happened to Ruby's sense of duty. He's also got to wonder why dream Ruby is even more of a bitch than the real deal. Or maybe that's just his perception. Dean was probably right about her all along.

Dean, who is most likely behind this locked door. Dean, who Sam still can't get to, no matter how bad he wants it. The irony is unbelievable.

"Oh, for Lucifer's sake." Ruby comes stamping up the corridor towards him, eyes black and fixed. She thrusts a lockpick into his hand. "Don't be such a fucking baby."

Sam twists and turns the lockpick, can feel the lock click when it gives, and the door opens to reveal Dean in scrubs, perched on the side of a bed.

"Why didn't you just open the door in the first place?" Sam asks her, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

"Why don't you just suck my left tit?" Ruby grumbles and gestures towards Dean. "Well? Don't you have somewhere to be?"

Sam walks towards Dean, who looks as pale and death-like as he did the last time Sam stood in this room, and the door slams shut behind him.

"See? I told you. Bad tempers. All of 'em." Dean yawns, stretches. "Took you a while to get the door open. You're off your game."

And that couldn't be more true. He is. He's so far off his game he can't even remember what it felt like to be _on_. 

"I'm not hunting, you know." He looks away, can't stand to see Dean's disapproval. Not like this. Not here.

"Yeah, I figured." Dean crooks a finger, and Sam comes closer, stands in front of him. "You okay?"

Sam laughs, but there's no warmth in it. "Pretty fucking far from okay, dude." 

Sam looks at the bed, and all he can see for a minute is Dean arching when he went into cardiac arrest. Sam's watched him die more times than he can even count; but he’s always, always come back. Not this time, though, and Sam doubts he's ever going to be okay again.

"Dean. I. I don't know if I can do this anymore. It's too hard." 

Sam runs a hand through his hair, and looks at Dean, whose eyes are dark and intense and Sam almost wants to look away again, but he can't bring himself to.

"Sam..."

"I just don't want to wake up. And eventually, I'm gonna have to." He pauses. "Ruby said she wouldn't help me out with more dreamroot, and I can't get hold of Bela. She says Hi, by the way."

Dean raises an eyebrow.

"And I just. As much as I can't bear the thought of not seeing you again, leaving you every fucking morning? It's killing me, man."

Dean places his hands on the backs of Sam's thighs. "Y'know how when I first made the deal you said you'd find a way out of it?" 

"Yeah," Sam snorts, "and look where _that_ got us."

"There's a way for us to do this. To be together like this, always, and never wake up." Dean stands up and pulls Sam's t-shirt up and off. "You're the research geek. Figure it out."

Sam squints, thinking, but Dean is pulling off his own shirt and Sam's drawn to the symbol carved into his abdomen.

"What the? What did they do to you?" Sam can feel white-hot anger flaring through him, boiling his blood. His hands clench at his sides and his nails gouge his palms. The other times, they were different. Brutal, hideous, but this is so much worse. Someone's fucking symbol carved into Dean, some demon with their fucking sigil on him, and Sam can't help the possessive flare that runs through him at the thought of it.

"You." Dean grabs Sam's hand and brings it to the symbol. Sam touches it, lets his fingers trace the outline and Dean shivers. "It's yours. That's what they told me. They said the sign was meant for you, and so was I, so..."

Sam feels liquid heat flare in his belly, lust and guilt at war with each other. Dean's been carved up with God knows what, and the brand is ugly and red and looks so painful it makes him wince. Yet he can't deny the fucking current that goes through him when he thinks about Dean with his mark on him, permanent proof of who he belongs to, even with his soul owned by hell.

"I'm sorry." Sam looks away. "Sorry they hurt you because of me."

Dean shakes his head and his voice comes out deep and gravelly. "I'm not, Sam." 

Sam can feel his cock twitch in response to the depth of Dean's tone, to the meaning there and when he turns back, Dean is naked, lying on the bed. Sam's heart races and everything feels so desperate. He pulls his boxers off, straddling Dean's hips, shoves his fingers into Dean's mouth and moans as Dean sucks on them, getting them good and wet. 

Sam pulls them out and without pausing gets two of them inside, working himself open as he rocks his hips back and forth. His eyes are closed and his head’s thrown back and he can hear Dean's appreciative, "Yeah. Fuck yeah, Sammy."

He doesn't waste any more time. Time's something they don't have, and Sam slides himself down, taking Dean's cock into him, inch by inch. He rides him; fast and hard, Dean's hands on his hips, and Sam's hands gripping Dean's shoulders.

"They made you mine," Sam says, his voice strained and ripped to shreds, "bound you to me. So fuck me like you're mine, Dean. Do it." 

Sam pulls himself off in time for Dean to push Sam onto his back, get his legs over Dean's shoulders and push in with one. Smooth. Thrust. 

Dean's almost rabid; growling and biting and scratching Sam as he pounds his ass. Sam wishes that the marks would stay; that he'd wake up with gouges and bruises all over his body to touch and connect him to something that no longer exists. 

Sam tries to push back and take control but Dean doesn't let him. Sam can't complain; he asked for this, after all, so when Dean pulls all the way out and teases him with the head of his cock, just rubbing it over his hole, Sam twists his fingers in the bedspread and groans, "Please." 

Dean grins wide and slams back in, fucking Sam with relentlessly hard thrusts.

They're both so close, and Sam can see his sigil on Dean above him. He wants to lick it, suck it, dig his fingers in and watch it bleed. Mineminemine is all he can hear, pounding in his head. Sam can see Dean's face contorting, can feel him fucking deeper and deeper and Sam knows Dean's going to come, and Sam's almost there too...

Until Ruby walks in. "Okay, that's it. No fucking in my hospital. Time's up."

Sam slams his head back on the mattress.

"Ruby? You are one _hell_ of a buzzkill," Dean grunts, covering himself as best he can with the bed sheet, but it doesn't stop Ruby from looking, smirk on her face. She seems impressed, and Sam feels jealousy biting at him. He wants to throw her halfway across the room. 

"What can I say? It's a gift." She tosses Sam's clothes at him. "Come on, Romeo. You can have your little caveman jealousy issues somewhere else. Gotta go."

Sam pulls his boxers back up, and his t-shirt back on. 

"Remember what I said, Sam." Dean's lying back now, hands under his head. "You can fix this."

Sam nods and turns away, not wanting to watch him fade yet again.


	3. Chapter 3

***

When Sam wakes this time, he doesn't screw around. He always remembers the dreams, remembers every fucking second of them, and while he can still almost feel Dean thrusting inside him, and he desperately wants to get off, there are things more important to focus on.

Dean said Sam could fix it, and he has to find out what that means. Like yesterday.

He showers with the heat turned up, so it's barely bearable. Shaves for the first time in days, and not only brushes, but flosses. He feels clean. Determined.

It’s been forever since he last did this, seems like it anyway, but once a geek, always a geek as Dean used to say. It’s amazing how little time it takes him to slip so comfortably back into research mode.

He skips breakfast and lunch. That's nothing new these days, but he's not filling the gap with liquor either, and that _is_ new. This is one day where he doesn't want to be numb.

After hours of looking at every dream-walking spell or power or curse, he's hit a dead end. None of them allow for staying in the dream-world forever, without the chance of waking up. He'd be better just to take an overdose of dreamroot, go into a coma and hope against hope he dies in his sleep. Which isn't out of the realm of possibilities at this point.

But it lacks certainty, and Dean had seemed so sure. Acted like this was something Sam already knew, was just waiting for the primer, and being that the Dean in his dreams is conjured up by his own supremely fucked subconscious, he has to know it, somewhere deep-down.

He contemplates calling Bobby for help. Sam knows if he does, though, he's going to guess straight away what Sam's doing. He isn't stupid, and Sam knows he won't support anything this reckless. Dean would've never told Bobby about the crossroads deal before the fact, so Sam sure as hell isn't telling him about this. If he ever figures out what _this_ is.

He takes a break around eight. Orders a pizza and channel-surfs prime time TV. There's a movie on one of the cable network’s he's seen before, _Long Time Dead_. Pretty scary, for a B Grade British horror flick. Though he finds himself nitpicking because a) surely using a Ouija board while tweaking on ecstasy is the worst possible idea _ever_ , and b) some of this shit would never happen. For one thing, people don't get possessed by...

Oh. Oh.

Sam wants to bang his head so hard on the table he gets concussion. "So fucking stupid," he says out loud. "Could you be any more blind, you moron?"

When he starts trying to track _It_ down, all he can think is _Dean, you smart fucking bastard_. Which is bizarre in and of itself because this Dean's a figment of his own imagination. But yeah. This is going to work. All he has to do is find _It_ before any other hunter does. That shouldn't be too difficult. He may have been off his game for weeks, but he's still a Winchester, for God's sake.

He manages to get hold of Bela finally, and she tells him he needs to get to George Street in Kansas City. There's a warehouse, used to be a storage space for artists, but it's been unused for a few months now. That's where he'll find what he's looking for.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" She asks after she’s given him the information. "Dean would kick your arse, you know."

"Yeah well, Dean's dead," Sam spits out. It sounds ugly and wrong, and he wishes he could take it back. But Dean didn't think about what _Sam_ would've wanted when he sold his soul, so why should Sam give a rat's ass about what Dean'd want him to do?

It's Sam's turn to be selfish.

"He's not here, Bela," he says, softer this time. "I'm the one who has to go on."

"Well, I hope you find what you're looking for. I really do." He can hear her breath, heavy and hitched on the other end of the line. "Goodbye, Sam."

It sounds so final when she says it. Maybe because it is.

***

He writes a letter to Bobby. He's not going to mail it; he can only imagine what would happen if he did, so he tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans. Safest place for it. Whoever finds him will make sure it's delivered. Sam regrets not being able to say goodbye of course, but he can't risk anything fucking up this plan. Everything depends on it going smoothly, and he's nervous as hell, but he's pretty sure he has everything covered.

He packs up in less than five minutes. He and Dean have gotten good at managing to fit their entire lives into a duffle in record time. Most of the time he thinks it's pretty pathetic and he resents it, but now? He's ridiculously grateful.

The Impala purrs when he turns the ignition. "Good girl," Sam whispers. He talks to her all the time now. He used to think it was idiotic, Dean talking to his car, but not anymore. She's his link; she's pretty much all he has left of Dean, beside his clothes and his weapons and stupid-flavored toothpaste. But not for long.

He drives for six and a half hours straight. It's there, just like Bela said it would be. Maybe he misjudged her; she's the only one that's come through for him since that Wednesday. Still, there's the fact that they wouldn't have been in Broward County if not for her.

Oh and the tiny issue of her _shooting him_.

It has a girl strung up. She's insanely pretty. Goth-like with blue-black hair and ink down one arm. He manages to release her, to pull her down while It's out of sight. She's shaky, but she hasn't been there long and when It comes back he asks her if she can run. She nods, and he smiles and watches with his heart in his throat as It approaches.

Its touch is gentle, like a caress, a whisper-kiss and Sam holds that one thought in his head, and gives in, lets himself fall into nothing.

And everything.

***

When Sam comes to, he feels disoriented, like he did when he 'woke up' after Cold Oak. Everything around him seems so familiar, but it's muddy too, like he's caught in a haze after the dreamroot.

He looks around, letting his eyes adjust. He's been here before. Sam takes a minute to mull it over because he's more than a little shocked. He didn't really know what to expect, true, but he didn't ever expect that he'd wind up back here in South Dakota of all places.

The cabin looks the same as it did the last time he was here, but it's different too. Dean, _Oh God, Dean_ , is crouched on the floor. Alive, but bleeding outside and in, and frozen solid like he's made of marble. He's hunched over just staring at their father.

"Dad." Dean moves then, whimpers, and Sam can't tell whether it's from the pain or not. "Dad, no."

Dean looks up at him, and Sam knows something is _really_ wrong here. All Sam can see in Dean's eyes is pain. Pain and anger, and something else Sam doesn't want to think too much on.

"Dean?" Sam reaches out to him, and his stomach seizes up when his brother, as injured as he is, still finds the strength to pull away from him. "Dean? What's wrong?"

"What's _wrong_ , Sam?" Dean spits out at him. "Isn't it obvious? Dad's dead. You killed him. Congratulations. The two of you finished your goddamn crusade, after all. Too bad he won't be around to celebrate, huh?"

It's then that Sam realizes their father isn't breathing.

I only shot him in the leg, Sam wants to say. But this isn't his reality and he can see the gaping wound in his father's chest. Sam looks down and notes for the first time the smoking Colt in his hand. His legs give out on him then, and he falls onto the floor with a sharp thud. Sam feels like he's going to be sick, can feel the nausea weighing his body down and there's a bitter taste at the back of his throat. He opens his mouth, heaves, but nothing happens.

"This isn't what I wished for," he barely gets out, his throat raw and catching on the words.

"Really?" Dean's voice is dripping with venom. "Seemed like a pretty easy decision you made there, Sam. Took, what, ten seconds?"

Sam shakes his head. This can't be happening. He's supposed to have Dean back and he can't understand why _this_ is his so called perfect world. Dean was supposed to have never died, and it was meant to be the two of them just like before.

He can see why it's happened like this, though. The crash. That was what killed Dean in the first place. No Azazel? No crash. No crash, no bargains for anyone: not for his father and not for Dean.

So the Sam in this reality did what he had to, to ensure Azazel didn't exist anymore. He did what Sam refused to do: killed his own father.

"I had to save you," Sam says, but he can see from Dean's face that nothing's going to convince him this was the right thing to do. Nothing's going to bring their Dad back, and Sam hasn't forgotten how much John's death screwed Dean up in reality. "Listen, Dean, it's not what it looks like, okay? See, there was a djinn..."

"Oh. Right," Dean scoffs, "I'm tired, Sam, and I'm in just a little bit of pain here, so what say we skip the Oprah moment, torch Dad's corpse, and then get me to a fuckin' hospital?"

"Dean. I." No. Dean always listens to him, and Sam just won't accept that he can't get through to him. This Dean seems even more unbending, more stubborn than in the real world, it's true, but he's still _Dean_.

If Sam can just get him to understand, prove to Dean what the fuck is going on, then maybe Sam can get the two of them out of here, and he won't essentially be killing himself for nothing. He's such a pathetic fuck though, that even seeing Dean like this – angry, bitter, hating him – is better than going back to life without his brother.

And everyone always said Dean was the one who had issues.

"Dean?" Sam looks directly at him despite the weight of Dean's stare.

"No." Dean's voice is firm, a direct order, and he sounds so much like their father it makes Sam's heart hurt. "I don't wanna hear it, Sam."

"Okay, then. Let's. Uh. You'll need some help to get up."

Dean doesn't speak, just nods, and Sam slowly moves to his feet. He helps Dean up and resists the incredible urge he has to reach out and touch his face, to sink into the knowledge that it’s real.

***

Sam doesn't cry when his father's body goes up in flames. Not like the first time they stood in a similar clearing, watching an identically shrouded body disintegrate. It's not that he doesn't want to, he just _can't_.

Sam stopped crying after he watched Dean's body burn away, leaving him with nothing but a pile of ash, and he couldn't summon tears now, even if he wanted to.

Sam can remember crying over his father, though. Can remember how it felt; so much pain, but so numb at the same time, like he had nothing left to give. He remembers all the thoughts that ran through his head then; how he shouldn't have left the two of them to go to college, how he wished he'd never gotten the supplies his Dad had asked him to get from Bobby. What ifs and maybes rolling through his brain.

But worst of all, Sam can still remember the first thought that ran through his head when they lit the pyre and watched the flames rise and consume their dad's corpse. The thought that still makes him sick to his stomach, makes him feel like the worst son ever born.

_I'm glad it was you, Dad. You and not Dean._

And yeah, he feels guilty. Incredibly, mind-numbingly guilty for even thinking it. But no remorse. Not ever.

He turns his head to look at Dean. His brother is wearing the same stoic expression, the same mask of nothingness he wore when this happened for real. Dean's just staring ahead, like he isn't aware of Sam, which is so foreign and ugly that Sam wants to shake him, make him admit Sam's still his family and nothing's ever going to change that.

There are tear tracks on Dean's cheeks, and Sam wants to reach out and brush them away. Wants to touch him so badly his fingers ache. If he does though, Dean'll just shut him out and walk away and Sam'll be where he was before he gave himself to the djinn. Alone. Empty.

"Sam?" Dean reaches his hand out to him, and Sam feels the horrible weight lift off his shoulders. He smiles and moves in. He knew he could get through to Dean, can't believe he doubted himself even for a minute. Everything's going to be okay now, because Dean doesn't hate him. He wants Sam to be there, and Sam doesn't have to be alone anymore.

Then Dean falls forward, collapses into his arms, pale and bloodloss-weak and Sam's heart sinks again.

***

The hospital's the same as before. Same as in his dream too, except there are no disturbing Ruby-fantasies manifesting in front of him. Just Dean's doctor asking him question after question about family medical history, how much Dean smokes and drinks, how much exercise he gets.

Sam tries to pay attention, but all he can think about is Dean in a hospital bed, abandoned and fragile.

"How did your brother sustain these injuries?" The doctor stands, pen poised and Sam has to force himself, his mind, back to the waiting room.

"Oh, uh." Sam bites his lip, willing his heartbeat to just slow the fuck down a minute and let him think. "It was a bear. Found its way into our cabin and sliced him up. One of us must've left the door open, I guess."

"He's sustained a great deal of blood loss. Why not call 911 instead of bringing him in yourself?"

Sam looks up, heart racing, trying to concentrate on what the doctor's asking him while his thoughts are completely on Dean, hoping to God that he's okay. "I uh. I tried, doctor. My cell wasn't getting reception and I didn't want to waste any time, especially with him so hurt. I just drove."

The doctor nods. He believes Sam, of course, they always do. Sam never found lying convincingly to be a problem, or even a challenge. Must've been all the high school drama classes, he supposes. Dean's the one who sucks at lying. His right eye always starts twitching, and it's a never ending source of either amusement or irritation for Sam, depending on where they are and who they're with.

"Can I see him?" Sam asks, hands clenching at his sides.

"Certainly." The doctor puts his arm on Sam's and leads him to Dean's room. "I'll warn you though; we sedated him for the pain. He may not even be aware you're in the room."

"That's okay," Sam says. He's starting to think it might be better if Dean doesn't know he's there, but it's not like he has a choice in the matter. Dean _always_ knows.

Seeing him in a hospital bed like this, weak, and sleeping, IV catheter running in his arm, Sam's throat seizes up. Dean isn't supposed to be like this. Dean's supposed to be the tough one, the one who never gives in and the one who bounces back time and time again. Somehow that's supposed to be Sam's deal now.

Sam can't remember when he became the strong one, but he hates it. He wants it to be like it was before. Wants his brother back so much it terrifies him, and he never imagined that this world wouldn't give that to him. Dean's supposed to be healthy and happy and alive here. Not in a hospital bed.

Not breaking Sam's heart.

He lays his hand over Dean's; it's lukewarm and he makes a mental note to ask them to turn up the heat. Sam is oddly fixated on the rise and fall of Dean's chest; it's a reminder that, in this world at least, his brother's still alive.

Dean groans softly, fidgets, and opens his eyes.

"Sam?" Dean sounds confused, he looks down at their hands and Sam can see Dean's face go from groggy disorientation to extreme discomfort in five seconds flat. He pulls his hand back; he doesn't want to upset Dean when he's like this.

"How do you feel?"

"Like something gutted me from the inside out." There's no humor in Dean's voice, and Sam can't bear it. It's like they're strangers. "'m thirsty," Dean murmurs. "Can you?"

Sam's already walking to the side table before Dean even finishes. He pours Dean a cup of water, says, "Just sip it, okay? You're not supposed to eat or drink yet."

Dean nods and Sam holds the cup to Dean's lips, tilting it so Dean can drink through the straw.

"Thanks," he says. His voice sounds scraped raw. "So how long do I have to stay in here?"

"The doc said two or three days depending on your recovery time." Sam pulls the table over, close to Dean's bed and puts the cup of water there, within his reach.

"Good." Dean looks away. "Once he gives me the all-clear, I'm driving you back to Palo Alto."

"What?" It comes out much louder than Sam would've liked, his voice reverberating in the stillness of the room.

Just... no. No fucking way. Not when he's given up _everything_ so he can be with Dean again.

"You can't be serious, Dean. I'm not going back there."

"Yes you are." Dean's voice is steely, determined. "You shot the demon, killed Dad, despite me begging you not to. You said it was an easy decision, that it's what Dad would've wanted. But what about what I wanted, Sam?"

Always Sam, never Sammy when he's angry, or hurt. Dean hasn't called him Sammy the whole time Sam's been in this place.

"Dean, I'm s..."

"No, Sam. Sorry's not gonna cut it this time. You always wanted a normal life, didn't you? Told me I was gonna have to let you go your own way?" Dean's voice sounds strained, broken. "Well, now the demon's dead, and you get to have all that. You get what you want, and you get to give me what _I_ want. It's over."

"Is this my brother talking to me?" Sam spits out. "Or the guy who enjoys fucking me way more than he wants to admit?"

It's a risk. He doesn't even know whether they're fucking in this reality. But from the set jaw and the steely eyes and the lack of confusion, he'd say that without a shadow of a doubt, they are.

"Sam..." Dean has that look on his face, the one that says don't push it or it's my fist in your face.

"I can't leave you, Dean. I wanna stay." He hates the way that sounds. Like a whiny kid, but he can't help himself. This is not happening. He's not winding up alone again, he's just not.

"Yeah, and I want Dad alive. It's a bitch, ain't it?" He pauses, says under his breath, "I can barely even look at you."

Dean's turned away from him now, and Sam knows he's not budging on this. Knows it right down to his bones, and he feels like _he_ was the one who got gutted from the inside. Feels like he did when Jake stabbed him in the back; white-hot, intense, mind-numbing pain.

Only this? This is worse.

"Okay," he whispers, "take me back, then."

Sam's never felt more hated, more alone than he does now. He hopes the djinn finishes him off soon, drains every last drop of his blood and fast, because hell would be preferable to this.

***

It takes a full day for them to drive to Palo Alto, and it's the most uncomfortable journey Sam's ever been on. That includes the summer he got poison oak and had to deal with Dean next to him for the entire trip, pretending to scratch so Sam would want to even more.

They have nothing to say to each other and it's excruciating. Sam's tried, but he knows Dean's a stubborn shit and there's no point pushing him anymore. Best if he just walks away.

He'd rather die remembering Dean as he was, rather than wasting the time he has left busting his ass for an incarnation of his brother who can't stand the sight of him.

Stanford's just as he left it. He contacts the admissions office, and they're extremely sympathetic. The rumors flying around had indicated his psychotic, serial-killing brother was responsible for the fire that killed Jessica, and God knows he deserved a leave of absence after such an awful experience.

He gets his full ride, and a one-bedroom apartment, and throws himself into studying. But it's all wrong. He's not supposed to be there, and there's this underlying feeling of dread every night he goes to sleep, and every morning when he wakes up.

He doesn't remember his dreams, and maybe it's just as well.

Sam starts dating again after a few weeks. His name's Nick and Sam meets him one night out in The Castro. Nick's in his last year of medical school, and he's tall and muscular, green-eyed, with pale, freckled skin. Sam is nothing if not predictable.

The first time they fuck, Sam has a complete meltdown. He makes up a story about how his last boyfriend liked to hurt him, and he's still not over it. He thought that might sound better than: "Sorry, the last guy who fucked me died and I tried to fix that by going into an alternate universe where everything was supposed to be sunshine and flowers, but he hates me here and I'm basically screwed because I can't stop thinking about him. Oh, and by the way, he's my brother."

He tries calling Dean sometimes, but of course he never picks up.

Sam starts drinking heavily. Instead of coffee and toast, he fixes himself a Bloody Mary or two for breakfast most mornings. He doesn't eat much at all, and he starts to lose weight at a frightening speed. All of his t-shirts are far too big for him now, and his jeans hang low on his hips and it's all so self-destructive and achingly familiar.

Before Spring Break, he makes an appointment to see a psychiatrist at Nick's request. Sam tells the doctor he needs something to help him sleep, that he's still not coping with the death of his girlfriend, not to mention all his other 'family issues'. At least half of it's true, though Sam doesn't expand on what his family issues are; he figures Dr. Saunders won't be prepared for the core of the issues being that Sam has a major hard-on for his brother. Or that they fight demons, or that Sam's actually not real, but a figment of his own imagination.

Dr Saunders tells Sam he needs to figure out exactly what he wants from life. Because that's not a broad-reaching subject, or anything. The doctor suggests he think about it over break, and if what he still wants is to practice law, well, no harm, no foul. If not? Perhaps he needs to explore other avenues, maybe leave school altogether.

Sam thinks the good doctor has no idea what he's talking about and the whole hour's been a ridiculous waste of time. He's just grateful when, at the end, he gets a prescription out of it.

When Sam's lease expires, he moves in with Nick. He's not in love with the guy, not at all. But he's comfortable and he cares for Sam, and when Sam's facedown underneath him, he can pretend he's someone else, and that's when things are really good.

He misses Dean so much it's like a fever, and Sam tosses back Ambien with vodka so he can block his brother out of his mind long enough to sleep.

Sam wonders what Dean's doing out there on the road. Wonders how many girls he's screwing; bent over pool tables or shoved up against bathroom walls. Whenever he thinks about it too hard, he has to leave Nick in their bed, grab his phone and call Dean. Sam always jerks off to the sound of Dean's voicemail greeting and bites his lip bloody when he comes.

***

Nick's working late shift at the hospital the night Sam dreams about Dean.

At first, he's just really fucking confused, and he thinks he's just woken up. Dean's sitting in the cane chair opposite the bed, just watching him, and Sam figures it's the Dean in this reality, come to tell him to stop calling and leaving obscene voicemails or something.

But one smile and Sam knows which Dean he's dealing with. His Dean. The one who's dead and doesn't hate him. The one who left a great big hole in Sam's heart when he died. The one who only comes to him in dreams because the universe is just not that kind to him.

"This is just... so fucked," he says to himself. "You're not real."

Dean gets up, flops on the bed next to him. He still has his boots on, caked in mud. Sam sure as hell hopes this is a dream because otherwise he's going to be scrubbing the bedspread with stain remover, come morning.

"Wanna feel how real I am?" Dean leers, "I'm as real as that geeky clone of me you're screwin'. Plus, can you stop being Anal Annie for one minute? God, it’s not like I can’t see you staring at my boots. I'm dead, not blind." Dean shrugs his shoulders and leans back, says, "You're such a freak, Sammy. I swear you're going to go to your deathbed worrying about grease spots on your stemware, or something."

"Stemware? Dude, that is possibly the gayest thing you've ever said in your life."

Dean's t-shirt is riding up and Sam can see a strip of skin between the hem of the shirt and where his jeans begin. Sam wants to lick it and see if Dean tastes like he remembers.

"Anyway," Sam points out, "I _am_ on my deathbed. Didn't you read the memo?"

Dean's mouth straightens into a line and his face clouds over. Sam feels cold. "Not funny, Sam."

"Ah, c'mon," he says, angling for the best Dean impersonation he can manage, "it's a little funny."

"So you've given up?" Dean asks. "Happy to just marry the doctor and waste away to nothing? Isn't that a little, I dunno, pointless? Not worth dying for?"

"He hates me," Sam whispers, "you, I mean. You hate me here, but out there? Out there it's worse. I can't do it, Dean. None of it. Not without you."

"So why aren't you fighting for it in here? I mean Jesus, Sam. Come on. You're a stubborn son of a bitch; you don't give up like this."

Sam reaches out and runs his fingers over Dean's face; forehead, nose, mouth and that's a mistake because now Sam doesn't want to stop touching him.

"What do you suggest I do?" Sam asks. "Force him to listen to me? This is you we're talking about, Dean. You think _I'm_ stubborn?"

"Not with you, Sam. With you I'm... easy." His mouth curls into a smirk. Sam snorts, but Dean's right. Even when he's angry or hurt, Sam's still got the ability to make Dean give in if he tries hard enough. Sam always worries about taking advantage of it, worries about being manipulative, but if he _is_ going to track his brother down in this reality, make him see sense, then he's going to need all the help he can get.

"Okay," he murmurs. "I'll see what I can do."

"Atta boy." Dean kisses him, brushes his lips against Sam's, feather-light. He sucks on Sam's bottom lip and scrapes it with his teeth when Sam moans. Dean pulls back as soon as Sam starts to press himself against him, and Sam misses the feel of his body, misses the warmth of it more than he can stand.

"You gotta go," Dean says, thumb rubbing Sam's jawline, "I'll be seeing you, okay?"

Sam nods and wakes up with a jolt. He knows what he's got to do now, and it doesn't mean retreating into suburbia until he dies from blood loss.

But if he's going to find Dean, the Dean who hates him for killing their father, then he's going to need some help.

He considers leaving a note for Nick, but really, the guy's not even real so Sam doubts his feelings are going to be hurt. Instead, he just packs everything he needs into his duffle, steals the car keys to Nick's BMW and hits the road.

***

Bobby takes one look at Sam: sleep-deprived, unshaven and wearing a shirt he's drowning in, and doesn't say a word. Just walks back into the house, leaving the door open.

"Well?" he calls back. "You coming or not? There's a beer in here with your name on it."

Sam follows Bobby into the house, shutting the door behind him.

It's so strange being around someone like Bobby who seems so real, seems just like the same Bobby he knows on the outside.

Knows? _Knew_.

Sam talks in past tense all the time now, and he doesn't want to think about that. It hurts too much.

This Bobby isn't exactly the same as the real article of course; he’s a figment of Sam's all-too-fucked up-head and there are differences. Can't see them until you peel back the layers, though.

"Nice car," Bobby says, clinking his bottle against Sam's and jolting him back to the here and now. "Yours?"

"Not exactly." Sam takes a sip of his beer. "I kinda stole it."

The beer's a bit watery and Sam grins. Some things never change, no matter what reality you're in.

"I passed the test." Sam slides his beer across the table. "How about another? One without the holy water if you have it? You always say no-one can tell, but this is worse than run-down piss. I’ve had _Canadian_ better than this."

Bobby's mouth drops and Sam laughs, watching as Bobby processes, but after a minute he walks out to the kitchen anyway, and comes back with a fresh beer for Sam.

"Thanks," Sam says, taking the beer when Bobby hands it over.

"Something you want to tell me, boy?" Bobby sits back down and doesn't take his eyes off Sam. "Like maybe how you knew about the holy water in the beer trick?" He takes a sip from his own and continues, "'Cause that's a trade secret, and I don't recall telling you or your brother that piece of information. Even your daddy didn't know, God rest his soul. Is this the psychic thing?"

Sam shakes his head; takes a long pull on his beer and holds up his hand for Bobby to wait. "That's better." He puts his beer down, looks Bobby square in the eye. "Bobby, we've got a lot to talk about."

Bobby looks at Sam as if to say, _No fucking kidding_ , but he doesn't interrupt.

"How familiar are you with djinns?" Sam asks. "Y'know, the creatures who grant you a wish while they drain you dry."

"I know a bit." Bobby squints, finishes his beer in one, two, three gulps. "Go on."

He tells Bobby everything, and he's gotta admire the old guy for taking it all at face value. Sam tells him how he came to be there, how he knew about the holy water from being possessed by the demon that'd inhabited Meg for so long. How he'd died and how Dean had brought him back. Dean dying himself. The whole nine yards.

By the end of it, Bobby's expression's still the same, but he shakes his head and grabs the bottle of whiskey from the shelf. He pours two shots and downs them both before Sam can even grab one for himself.

"Sorry, kid," he says, pouring Sam another one. "Just needed it, y'know?"

Sam nods, and chucks his own shot back, grimacing as he swallows. He hasn't eaten for at least a day, and he can feel the alcohol burn on its way down.

"So you're stuck here ‘til you die? Boy, you Winchesters have some serious attachment issues. Not to mention the worst martyr complex I've ever seen in my whole damn life. All three of you." He pours himself another shot, adds, "And my mama was Catholic."

Sam laughs at that, and it feels good. He can't remember the last time he really laughed, except in dreams. Of course, he has no idea what's real and what isn't in this place, anyway, but it _feels_ real. And that's something.

"So I suppose you wanna find your brother, or something?"

"Yes, sir," Sam says, "I do."

Bobby nods and gets out the large map Sam's seen more times than he can count. He points to a section in Arizona. Flagstaff.

Arizona. Well.

"Good for you, Dean," Sam says, fondly. He probably made it to the Grand Canyon, after all.

"He's there. Working the bar at Frank's. He's a good man, Frank, ex-hunter. Here, let me write down the address for you." He grabs a piece of paper and a pencil. "But Sam? He might not want to see you."

"I know." He grabs the piece of paper and folds it up, shoves it in his pocket. "But I have to try, Bobby."

Bobby nods slow and thoughtful, walks over to one of the many boxes he has strewn around the room, and pulls something out. Sam moves over to get a closer look. It's an amulet on a leather strip. Dean's amulet.

Bobby presses it into his hand. It feels warm. Familiar. "He left it here, said he didn't want it close to him anymore. You give it back to its rightful owner, kid, okay?"

"I will," Sam says, nodding. "Don't you worry about that."

_Once I've kicked his ass for taking it off._

Sam hates to even think about the fact that Dean didn't want the amulet, _Sam's_ amulet, close to him anymore. It hurts like a bitch, but it's also kinda promising. If Dean had to get rid of it to try and purge Sam from his life, it means there's a part of him that still cares, and that means it's possible Sam has a chance of getting through to him.

"Right," Bobby says, rubbing his hands together. "We'd better get you some new plates for that fancy car of yours."

***

Sam tries to leave once the plates are changed, but Bobby demands he stay for dinner at the very least. Sam tries to argue, but he doesn't stand a chance when Bobby gives him the patented Singer glare. He says Sam looks skinnier than when he was 'a midget', couldn’t possibly 'drive that distance on an empty stomach, boy, and that's that.'

Sam protests, of course, but once he's at the dinner table scarfing down beef casserole, mashed potatoes and spinach, he's grateful Bobby's such a stubborn man. It's the best meal he's had in God knows how long.

Bobby sends him off with a thermos of hot, black coffee and a giant slab of chocolate cake. His own recipe. Sam loves that for a curmudgeonly man's man, Bobby bakes a mean cake, and isn't ashamed to admit he's damn good in the kitchen.

"Does it have holy water in it?" Sam teases, and it earns him a smack upside the head before Bobby pulls him in for a tight hug.

"You take care, kid, and take care of that brother of yours."

"I will. See you soon, Bobby." Sam's voice breaks a little, because he doesn't know if he will. Has no idea how long he has before he's gone, before he's drained and his brain shuts down and this world disappears. He assumes he has a fair amount of time in here, Dean told him time passes quicker than it does on the outside, but who knows how much time he has before he's dead?

He _does_ know he needs to get to Dean before everything fades away, though.

It's around ten when he leaves South Dakota. He's got twenty-one and a half hours of driving ahead of him, so he's thankful for the coffee Bobby gave him. Especially when he gets to Albuquerque near lunchtime, and he realizes he still has at least another seven hours before making it to Arizona.

He decides to stop for a couple of hours. If Bobby's information's right, (and he's betting it is, because hey, it _is_ Bobby) then Dean'll be working when he gets into town regardless. That'll give him a chance to get his head together before he turns up at the bar to see him.

He checks into the Silvermoon Lodge for a fifteen minute power-nap and a shower. Sam's glad for the rest and especially glad to feel clean again. One last stop before he leaves; the diner for a tuna melt and enough coffee for his thermos, and once that's done, he carries on driving.

Sam knows, despite the blessed nap, that he should feel insanely, horribly tired. He has to be, deep down. But he's also pumped on caffeine and adrenaline, and the next three hundred and twenty-three miles seem to fly by until he's in Flagstaff, with barely any recollection of the last half of the journey.

He checks into the Days Inn on Highway 66 and gets another fifteen minutes of shut-eye, before finding the phone number of the bar online. He calls from a payphone, not wanting to risk the possibility of them having caller ID; when Dean answers, he hangs up and heads back to the motel, heart in his throat and Dean's amulet clutched in his hand.

God, he's missed him.

Dean sounds good all things considered; voice rough with fatigue, probably too many cigarettes and too much bourbon and far, far too much sex. Dean working in a bar is pretty much a recipe for rampant hedonism, and Sam wipes his hands on his jeans, trying to ignore the fact that two fucking syllables in that voice have his mouth dry and his brain going south, and it's just not fair how Dean's able to do that. Still.

This is becoming a habit, really, but it's _Dean_ and when it comes to Dean, he's as sad an addict as any. Sam's hand rubs his crotch of its own volition, and he wastes no time thumbing open the buttons and getting his hand inside his boxers. All the while he can hear Dean’s deep, whiskey-rich voice. It rolls over him, sweet and smooth as honey, telling Sam how much he misses him, how much he wants to get him on his hands and knees, to fuck him so he never forgets what it feels like.

Sam comes fast and hard with one hand inside his jeans and the other wrapped around the amulet, tears stinging his eyes for the first time since he set his brother's corpse on fire.


	4. Chapter 4

***

He gets to the bar around ten. It's pretty busy, but not insanely so; maybe thirty people tops are lining up for drinks, and another twenty or so are scattered amongst tables and bar stools.

Sam catches a glimpse of Dean, pouring beer, muscles flexing. He’s grinning, it makes Sam’s heart clench, and something twists inside his belly. Dean looks great, he's slightly tanned and there's stubble covering his face, but it's clean, sculpted, like he's got the makings of a perfectly trimmed beard. It suits him, and it's sexy as hell, and Sam can already feel his body responding to the sight of his brother.

Dean looks happy. He's smiling like he used to, the lines around his eyes crinkling when he does and Sam almost wishes he could walk away, just leave him to a world without him in it. Go, so that the last memory Sam has of Dean is like this, truly honestly happy, on his own and living his life.

But he can't do it. Sam's way too fucking selfish when it comes to Dean, and he's killing himself to be there, so he figures he's entitled to a little selfishness. He stands in line and waits until the crowd dies down, waits his turn along the oak ledge of the bar. Sam feels his stomach fluttering, nerves taking over as he gets to the front of the line.

He hasn't been this nervous since the day he picked up Jess's engagement ring from the jewelry store.

"What'll it be?" Dean doesn't look up at first, but when he does, Sam can see the excitement in his eyes, and Sam's so relieved he could cry.

It only lasts a couple of seconds, though and soon enough, Dean's head kicks in and he realizes what he's doing. Sam can see the shield go back up, right in front of his eyes, and it's like he's staring at a stranger again.

"What'll it be?" Dean repeats, eyes flicking away.

"Come on, Dean. I tracked you down, drove all the way here, the least you can do is hear me out."

" _Sam_..." The warning tone is back, and Sam doesn't want to push it too far, too fast. "Fine." He throws his hands up in exasperation. "I'll have a Corona. Lime. And a shot of Jäger."

Dean turns his back on Sam and pulls a bottle of Corona from the cooler. Sam watches him work, trying not to fixate on the way his hands move so competently as he uncaps the bottle, and pushes a lime wedge down the neck. Dean sucks lime juice from his fingers, and whether or not it was intentional, that's just not fucking fair.

Sam takes a sip from his beer, deliberately slow, sliding his lips an inch or so down the rim of the bottle. He feels satisfied he's gotten Dean back for the lime when he sees Dean staring intently at the line of his throat as Sam swallows.

"The shot?" Sam asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He can see Dean's eyes tracking the movement, his lips parted, and Sam feels so fucking smug about it, the fact Dean's trying so desperately to be business-like with him, but he's so focused on him that he's fucking up his order.

"Huh? Oh, sure." Dean grabs the Jäger and pours a shot for Sam, watches as he slams it back and follows it up with a pull on his beer. Clears his throat, says, "It's on the house." He looks at Sam as if to say, 'that it?' and turns to the next customer.

"What time do you close?" Sam can see something on Dean's face he wasn't expecting to see. Resignation.

"Midnight," Dean says. "Where are you staying?"

"Days Inn." Sam drains the rest of his beer. "Room 113. Why?"

Dean shrugs, looking disinterested. "No reason. Enjoy your stay."

"Oh, for God's sake." Sam grabs his arm. "Dean? Will you cut me some fucking slack?"

Sam can see Dean's eyes narrow, and he knows he's screwed it up. Too much, too soon, but fuck it, he doesn't know how much time he has left, and if Dean's going to be this hostile, there's no point in treading carefully anyway.

Dean pulls his arm away, slowly, a little too slowly for Sam to believe he's uncomfortable. "Come back after my shift," he says under his breath. "I can't do this right now, Sam."

Sam can feel a tiny tendril of hope uncurling in his belly. He nods, and leaves Dean to it, sets his cellphone alarm for 11.50pm and sleeps in the back seat of the car. It isn't exactly comfortable; his legs are far too long and his shoulders too wide, but just being there, knowing he's that close to Dean is something he doesn't want to give up on, just for a comfortable bed.

At midnight he's back at the bar, watching Dean wipe down tables and saying goodbye to the regulars who know him by name. Sam feels a bitter stab of jealousy at the fact that right now, these people probably know this Dean better than he does. They've seen him smile more times than Sam has, and that's so wrong he can't even process it.

They're supposed to rely on each other. That's it. Nobody else. They're not meant to be law students or bartenders, or be apart from each other for even one day. They're dysfunctional and co-dependent and it's the way it's _always_ been. Sam can't stand the thought of Dean telling anyone else his bad hookup stories, or having anyone else in the passenger seat of the Impala, or... no. It's just wrong, all of it, and Sam thinks he's probably naive for expecting that things wouldn't be different here. For expecting that he'd just slot in, and he'd have his brother back the way he was before everything went to hell.

"What are you even doing here, Sam?" Dean doesn't look up, just loads the glasses into the dishwasher, not seeming to care how much noise he's making, or the fact Sam has to yell to be heard.

"You told me to come back, didn't you?" Sam hates the tone in his voice. It sounds childish and he wants to take it back immediately.

Dean sighs. "That's not what I meant, smartass, and you know it."

"I know," Sam says. "We just. We can't leave things the way they were before you dropped me back at school. Come on, man. You owe me at least that much."

"So how'd you get here?" There's something in Dean's tone Sam doesn't quite recognize. It's not friendly, whatever it is.

"Stole a car." Sam shrugs, and that's when Dean turns and looks at him, dead in the eyes. Dean's eyes are dark, glinting with something that looks like anger.

"Don't you mean stole your _boyfriend's_ car?" Not anger then. Jealousy.

Sam's stomach feels like it's made of lead all of a sudden, and he coughs. "How did you know that?" he asks. "Have you been keeping an eye on me?"

"So what if I have?" He raises an eyebrow. "Interesting choice there, Sam. Looks a little familiar, huh? Couldn't forget about me so you took the nearest possible substitute?"

"Fuck you," Sam says under his breath. It's true though and he hates it. Hates the fact that Dean's so goddamn self-assured, that he knows Sam can't survive on his own. Yet Dean apparently can, and that's what burns like fucking acid.

"I hear he's going to be a doctor. Nice step-up, Sam. How do you think Jessica would feel, knowing it only took a few months for her boyfriend to start taking it up the ass again from his own brother before moving on to the first preppy asshole he sees?"

If he's pulling the Jessica card, it means Dean's pissed. He's pissed and jealous, and Sam should feel triumphant, but he doesn't. He's on the verge of losing his temper, and Sam's too busy trying to control the adrenaline coursing through his body to feel satisfied at the fact that he's managing to get a rise out of him.

"Oh, I don't think she'd mind. How about you, Dean?" Sam's spitting now, his fists clenching at his sides. "How d'you think Dad would feel if he knew you couldn't get enough of me bending over for you? You started this whole thing in the first place, didn't you?"

Sam doesn't know if that's the case, or not. The Sam in this reality could've seduced Dean for all he knows. But it seems to be working, him baiting Dean with it, so it must be at least marginally true.

"You leave Dad out of this." Dean's voice is strained, it's in that zone that Sam knows stands for dangerdangerdanger, but he just can't quit now. He's too amped, high with it.

"Why? _You_ never did," Sam grits out. "Daddy's good little soldier. Wonder what he would have said if he knew just how good a son you really were. Think he would have patted you on the back for fucking your baby brother? You're hardly perfect, Dean."

"Says the guy who left his girlfriend to burn on the ceiling," Dean growls. "What a shame you didn't know it was going to happen. Oh that's right, you did."

And that's just fucking it. Sam isn't going to listen to any more of Dean's bullshit, not when he's dragging Jessica into it like this.

He reaches over the bar, grabs Dean and hauls him over it, throws him to the ground. Dean jumps up, almost immediately, like he's in a boxing match, and Sam can see he's high as a fucking kite on nervous energy. This is when Dean's really fucking dangerous and Sam only gets one left hook in before Dean grabs Sam's shoulders and brings his knee up into Sam's groin. Sam whines; he can feel white-hot pain blinding his vision, and he stumbles backward, not able to keep his balance. Dean takes advantage, pushes him down on the ground and kicks him, not once, but twice in the stomach.

"Told you I didn't want to see you," Dean spits out, "but you just couldn't stay away."

Sam gets up and lurches forward, gets his hand around Dean's throat and walks him back until they hit the wall. Pins him there, and squeezes. Sam lets him go as soon as he can see Dean showing signs of not being able to breathe, steps back, and when Dean moves forward, he trips him up so Dean lands on his back on the floor. Dean huffs, and before he has time to react, Sam gets on top of him. He sits astride him and holds Dean down, wrists pinned above his head as he struggles.

"I didn't really kill him, you asshole," Sam yells, "but I wish it _had_ happened that way. If I hadn't've listened to you, you'd still be alive, and I wouldn't be..."

"You wouldn't be what? What wouldn't you be, Sam?"

Sam takes a deep breath. He hadn't intended on telling Dean the truth, but oh well, it's not like he has anything to lose, after all. Not after they've just had a fucking brawl in the middle of a fictitious bar.

"I wouldn't be dying alone," Sam whispers, "and I wouldn't be so fucking desperate that I wished myself into a universe where my brother hates me."

In reality, if he'd shot John when he had the chance, Dean'd still blame him. There's a part of him that would hate Sam forever, but Sam knows now he'd be okay with that. Anger and resentment don't mean death, and they don't mean gone forever.

"Sam, you're talking garbage." Dean's voice is softer now, less violent. "Wishes like that don't exist. Hell, _wishes_ don't exist, period."

"No," Sam says, "but djinns, genies do. I wanted you to be alive, so I found one that'd send me here. Some place where you were alive. That was the wish."

Dean looks like he's just been punched in the gut, and Sam can see he's trying to think it through. The fact that he's even bothering to think it through at all says something, and Sam can feel nervous excitement uncoil in his belly.

"Okay, Aladdin, not saying I believe this whole thing, but..." Dean swallows. "I died?"

"Yeah," Sam half-whispers. "In the real world you did. More than a hundred times." Sam strokes his thumb across Dean's pulse point, just so he can tell that he's real, that his heart's beating. Sam sees Dean's eyes flick down to his wrist, but Sam keeps doing it, waiting for Dean to pull away from him. He doesn't.

"More than a hundred?"

"Yeah." Sam looks away. "Please. Just. Don't ask."

Dean's eyes narrow, like he's tucking it away for later. "And Dad?"

"He sold his soul to save you, the first time you died." Sam stands up, shaking his legs out.

Dean's face softens, his jaw unclenches, and Sam feels like he's been given a second chance. There's a part of him that almost can't believe that he's managing to get through to Dean, and Sam's struck with an overwhelming sense of relief, mixed with a compulsion to get stinking drunk, too.

"Hey, you got any whiskey around here?"

"Dude, we're in a bar." Dean puts out a hand and Sam helps him up. Dean walks over to the bar, shakes his head at the mess they've made. Broken glasses are strewn across the bar and on the floor from where Dean’d flailed when Sam was wrenching him over. He grabs a cloth and wipes the top of the bar off, then grabs a bottle of Jack Daniels from the shelf, and two glasses.

"So Dad sold his soul for me, huh?" Dean pours whiskey into both and slides Sam's glass to him across the bar. "That's a pretty fucked-up thing to do."

"Yeah." Sam knocks his back and tries to ignore the dagger-like pain in his chest. "Yeah. It really is."

Dean looks at him, and Sam looks away. They were always so good at reading each other, and Sam doesn't want to risk Dean seeing there's so much more Sam hasn't said. They don't have time for dealing with the last fifteen or so months and the ways they both screwed up so royally, let alone the fact Sam's maybe not a hundred percent human. He doesn't know if this Dean could handle it any better than the real one did, and there’s a distinct possibility he might handle it even worse.

"I'm sorry, Sam." Dean drinks and pours two more. "I said some screwed-up shit. Things I didn't mean."

"It's cool." Sam looks at the ground. "I understand. Can't say as I blame you, considering."

He drains the rest of his glass and wipes his mouth. Sam can see Dean watching him with intense, green eyes that flare up when Sam's mouth quirks into a smile.

"Something funny?" Dean's voice sounds raw, raspy as hell.

"I. Nah. Nothing funny at all."

Dean walks around the other side of the bar, and pushes up behind Sam. He gets one hand on either side of Sam's hips and holds him there, tight, so he can't move.

"I've missed you, Sammy," Dean whispers, hot breath on Sam's skin, "missed having you with me. Wasn't right without you." He scrapes his teeth down Sam's neck. "Missed this, too. Fuck."

First time he's called him Sammy, and Sam can't help the huge surge of relief that engulfs him at hearing Dean’s confession. It’s followed by a full body shiver as Sam can feel Dean's cock, hard and long, pushing against his ass. Sam can't help grinding back, and he slides his ass up and down, giving Dean the friction he obviously needs.

"Missed you too, Dean," Sam says. "I felt so numb. I never thought about anyone else. Not even when I was. Never. It's always been about you."

"Well of course. I'm awesome."

He can't see him, but Sam can just hear the smirk dripping from those words, and he inhales sharply when Dean snakes a hand up under his shirt, and rolls a nipple between his fingers.

"Those fucking voicemail messages you left me. Drove me fucking nuts hearing you like that, made me wanna. God. Gonna fuck you, Sam. Right here," Dean says, fast, broken, like this'll all end if they don't do it right now.

Sam can hear the sound of a zipper being pulled, and when he turns his head, he can see Dean is naked from the waist down.

"Then," Dean breathes onto the back of Sam's neck, "I'm gonna get you back to your motel and do it again. Lay you out on the bed, make you beg for it. Make you prove to me how much you've missed my cock."

Sam bites his lip, hard. He hopes to God no-one's hanging around outside the bar, because he's making noises that are kind of embarrassing now, and if there are people around? They just got a free dose of moaning that'd put a porn star’s to shame.

Dean unzips Sam's jeans, and pulls them down along with his boxers. Behind him, Sam can hear Dean swearing under his breath, and he feels him move away. He looks up to see Dean behind the bar again, rifling through a bag Sam assumes is his. Dean grins wide and leery, and then he's back, slamming Sam forward onto the bar.

Lube in his goddamn bag, and Sam doesn't even want to think about why. He can almost taste the bitterness and envy at the back of his throat at the thought of his brother fucking around for six months with people who aren't him. Sam knows it makes him a complete fucking hypocrite too, and he can't help it, he never can when it comes to Dean.

"What's going through that freaky little head of yours, huh?" Dean says, circling Sam's hole.

Sam lets go of the stupid petty jealousy and gives into the perfect fucking feeling of Dean's thick fingers, cool and slick pushing in and opening him up

"Just wondering when we might actually get around to fucking," Sam manages to get out, voice strained. "Y'know, maybe before I turn thirty?"

Dean snorts, "Pushy little bitch, aren't you?" He shoves his fingers in deeper, and Sam feels like his legs are going to buckle.

Feels so fucking _real_ , and God, Sam can't believe this is actually happening. That he gets to have this with Dean, all of it, without interruptions from Ruby or the real world. Without having to wake up in his cold motel room bed, alone. For once, the two of them get to have it all, and it makes Sam's head spin.

Makes him feel content. Safe.

He bites back on everything he wants to say, every noise he wants to make. But Dean's laughing as Sam bites down on his own hand, and Dean pulls his fingers nearly all the way out, then shoves them all the way in again; harder, deeper.

"None of that. Wanna hear you," Dean half-whispers, "hear how much you love it. Come on, Sam. It’s been six months since I’ve made you come. Need to hear you fall apart for me." He adds another finger and Sam yells as he feels Dean's fingers inside, grazing his prostate with every stroke.

"Fucking. Control freak." Sam's laughing, thrusting his hips back, frantic and desperate. He's trying to fuck himself on Dean's fingers, trying to get them in deeper and he can feel the second Dean pulls them out for good. Sam bites his lip when he hears the snap of rubber.

"You better hang on, Sammy," Dean says. "It's been a while. Do you think you can handle it?"

"I'm sure I can. Fuck." He can feel Dean pushing in, and Jesus, he feels like he's being stretched within an inch of his life. "S-sure I can manage."

He gets his hands on the edge of the bar and hangs on tight as Dean starts to fuck him, deep and fast and wow, Sam thought the dreams felt real, but this? This is so much better. His hands are gripping the bar and his fingers are stiff and sore, but he doesn't care because this is fervent and hot and Sam wants to feel like this forever.

It isn't just the sex. He has Dean back and it's like that hole inside him has gone, replaced with something familiar and welcome.

The sex, though, _is_ amazing. Dean's so fucking good at it, and well, he should be with all the practice he's had, but it never fails to amaze Sam regardless. It never fails to make him feel grateful for being the one that gets to see Dean like this; he can't imagine this is how Dean treats his random hookups.

Then again, Sam guesses he probably shouldn't be surprised at all. Dean's always been so good at giving him what he needs, and sex is no exception.

Sam murmurs, "Harder, please Dean, harder," and Dean laughs low and hot. He gets one hand on Sam's shoulder and the other on his waist and just slams into Sam, time and time again, relentless and unforgiving, breathing filth into his ear that makes Sam blush from head to toe and it's so fucking good Sam can hardly stand it.

So close already, and Sam gets his own hand on his cock and jerks himself in time to Dean's thrusts. Dean's panting hard, his breathing more and more labored and Sam groans as Dean slams in one more time, deep, and comes.

Sam can feel his own orgasm building through his entire body, a wave of pleasure which seems to originate from the top of his head to the soles of his feet and when it hits, it's so fucking amazing he can't even believe it. He's yelling breathlessly and almost keening he's so out of control. Doesn't stop until Dean grabs him by the hair and pulls his head back, holding Sam there so they can kiss; messy and wet and open, pushing Sam's hand away from his cock, and replacing it with his own. Dean sucks on Sam's tongue, hungry and desperate and wrings Sam's orgasm out of him until Sam's got nothing left to give.

He feels broken, completely wrecked. Feels like he's been scraped raw, and his hands shake as he tries to get his clothes back into some semblance of decency.

"Damn, Sam," Dean whispers against his neck, "now I have to wipe down the fuckin' bar again."

Sam couldn't care less.

***

Sam sleeps better than he has in months; a deep, dreamless sleep. When his cellphone alarm goes off at seven, he just hits the snooze and closes his eyes until he hears Dean.

"Rise and shine, Sammy!"

His blood runs cold and his chest seizes up in utter blind fucking panic.

"Aw, c'mon, Sam. Don't look at me like that. Things to do." Dean pats him on the shoulder, and Sam sits up, takes a couple of deep breaths when he realizes he's not in Broward County and this isn't yet another Tuesday, or, God help him, fucking Wednesday.

"Why are we getting up now, exactly?" Sam rubs his eyes. "I mean, it's not like we have plans, right?"

"Actually, we do. No time to bask in the afterglow, Princess." Dean pulls the covers off of him and Sam sits up, squinting. "Aw, don't look so abused, I got you coffee."

Dean hands him a Starbucks cup, and Sam has one of those 'Oh man, I could not love my brother more' moments. Then he takes a sip, and that moment's definitely passed. "What the _hell_ is that?" Sam grimaces, wanting to scrub the taste out of his mouth with toothpaste, noxious chemicals, whatever guarantees he doesn't have to taste _that_ again.

"It's caffeine," Dean says, eyes bright, "milky, sugary, artificially-flavored caffeine. Drink up, baby."

Sam rolls his eyes. The froofy drinks thing is getting old, or was when Dean was alive, or is because he's here. Not that he cares right now. Not really.

"Thanks for the caffeine part," Sam murmurs, and he takes another sip. It's not so bad on second taste, and regardless of how revoltingly sweet it is, it is coffee, and he needs it desperately. "So what's so important that you're out of bed at, ugh, seven o'clock?"

"Vampire nest down in Phoenix." Dean throws a towel at Sam. "You've got ten minutes."

"A hunt? Already?" Sam gets out of bed, cracks his spine in three places, and stretches his arms above his head. His t-shirt rides up, and he can see Dean's eyes fixed on his crotch. "I thought we could, you know, just hang out for a bit?"

"Why?" Dean's eyes glint. "Didn't we do enough hanging out last night?"

Sam shakes his head; that's not what he meant, and from the grin, Dean knows it.

"There's something you're not telling me. Talk to me, Sam."

"I." Sam swallows. "Okay. So you know how I said last night I was killing myself?"

Sam can see Dean looking at him intently, and he didn't even want to tell him, was quite comfortable with not _ever_ going there, but Dean's always had a way of getting things out of him, and Sam's just too damned tired to resist fighting the instinct not to tell his big brother everything.

"See the thing with djinns is..."

"They knock you out and drain your blood, while they put you in a dream-like state based on whatever wish they manage to extract out of your head?"

Sam blinks and nods, open-mouthed.

"I did some research while you were asleep," Dean says, and brushes Sam's jaw with his thumb. "You're a fucking idiot, you know that?"

"Yeah, well." Sam shrugs. "I couldn't do it. Not anymore. It was just barely living, Dean, and it's never going to get better. There's always going to be this hole without you, and I just. I'm not strong enough."

Dean kisses him then, slow and deep. Sam fists his hands in Dean's jacket and brings him closer, holds him in a tight embrace.

"So how about we raise a little hell while we still can?" Dean smirks. "I know you're just itching to get a weapon in those hands again, Sammy, don't even try to pretend you're not."

Only because you're here, he wants to say. But Dean's right. The two of them together, on the job, Sam can't think of anything he'd rather be doing.

They find the nest, and it's all too easy with the Colt. Dean shoots the patriarch between the eyes, but that's nowhere near as much fun as the old fashioned way, and Sam gets one of the daughters with a machete, slicing clean through her neck.

Dean looks surprised. Of course he does. Dean's used to being the one who everyone and everything's scared of, and Sam's the one who holds back. Well, not anymore. Sam wipes the blood off his face and Dean's looking less surprised now and more impressed. He stabs the other daughter in the back with a blade dipped in dead man's blood, and holds her there, while Sam removes her head, and when the other two vamps start charging them, Dean turns around and shoots them both between the eyes like it's nothing.

It kind of looks like some epic painting; the two of them standing in the middle of a pile of dead bodies, blood and body parts everywhere. Sam grabs Dean, one hand on the back of his head as he pulls him in for a kiss.

"I nearly forgot something," Sam says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the amulet. "Put that back where it belongs, yeah?"

Dean nods, grabs it out of Sam's hand and puts it around his neck.

"Felt like something was missing this whole time," he admits, fingering the leather, "but I couldn't have it with me while you weren't, Sam. Just wouldn't have been right."

Sam turns his back on Dean and pulls up the back of his shirt.

"I had someone burn it into me," Sam says. "I couldn't look at it, couldn't wear it around my neck. But I had to. Had to know it was there anyway."

Sam can feel Dean's fingers on it, tracing the bumps and raised edges, and he shivers.

"God, Sam. Can't believe you did this." Dean's voice is trembling and when Sam turns around, he looks touched and impressed and overwhelmed and really fucking turned on. "Can't believe I didn't see it last night, either. You'd think I might have noticed my own brother with a goddamn tramp stamp."

Sam laughs. "Let's get out of here." He wipes his forehead with his sleeve and picks up the machete, clapping Dean on the back. The two of them walk outside and pile into the Impala.

"Man, I need a shower," Dean says, lifting his arm up to sniff his armpit. "I reek."

"You always reek. What's new about that?"

"Oh you're so full of shit." Dean starts the car, turns to Sam and grins. "I know you love the way I smell. I smell like a man, and you're really fucking gay, so don't even pretend you don't love it."

Sam laughs. Throws his head back and laughs loud and throaty and it feels good. _This_ feels good. It's as close to fucking perfect as it's ever going to be again.

"Well? What are you waiting for?" Sam grins, tapping his watch. "My funeral?" He smiles and stares ahead, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun as Dean puts the car in gear.

***

They shower separately, Sam taking the first one and washing the sweat and remnants of the hunt off. He doesn't take long in there; he's wired as all hell, and he feels lightheaded from the steam as well as the euphoria.

Dean takes a lot longer, singing _Talk Dirty to Me_ loud and off-key, and Sam's ridiculously close to just going in there and getting down on his knees. He knows how much Dean treasures his post-hunt shower, though. It's part of the ritual almost as much as food and sex are, and he sounds so completely happy, so content that Sam doesn't have the heart to interrupt him.

He bides his time sending an email to Bobby, thanking him for the directions and the hospitality. By the time he's hit send, Dean is standing in the doorframe, towel wrapped around him and an enormous grin on his face.

"That shower is awesome," he says, dropping the towel on the ground. "I feel like a whole different person."

"Clearly." Sam drops his eyes, raises an eyebrow. "I can see certain parts of you appreciated the shower more than others."

"Oh no, baby," Dean says, walking over and shutting the laptop. "That's all for you."

Sam rolls his eyes. Dean is as cheesy as hell, and the worst thing is that all his hookups probably fall for it. Sam'd like to say that he's beyond falling for Dean's attempts at seduction, but then again, he's the one with liquid heat pooling in his belly, the one falling to his knees like clockwork. So really, he's in no position to judge.

He licks a line up Dean's cock and Christ, he's missed this. Missed the taste of him so much it hurts, and he licks again, slow and steady. Dean inhales sharply, and Sam can feel it go straight to his own cock. He digs the heel of his hand into the front of his pants, just once, and gets his hands on Dean's hips, holding him there as he takes Dean fully into his mouth.

"Fuck, Sam." Dean's voice is low and gravelly and it's like Sam can feel it right down to his bones. "Forgot how good you are at this. Shit. Have to..."

Dean gets his hands in Sam's hair, and grabs. Holds his head and starts to fuck himself into Sam's mouth; slow at first, but it doesn't take long for impatience to build and soon Dean's thrusting in and out, frantic and desperate and Sam opens his mouth wider, just letting Dean use him like he needs to.

Sam's jaw aches, and Dean's fingers are twisting in his hair, and he can't get enough of it. Loves the burn that he gets when his mouth's being fucked, and he knows it'll be a good day or two of his jaw aching. A constant reminder of this.

Sam can always tell when Dean's about to break because he starts babbling words and sounds and Sam closes his eyes, pulling off in time for Dean to come on him, splattering face and neck and chest.

"What a dirty little bitch." Dean is panting and he sounds impressed. "Look at you."

Dean pulls Sam up, and lets his eyes travel down Sam's body. He grins, looking like a kid that's got it in his head to do some mischief. Though that's not a comparison Sam should be making, because Dean is also completely not. Not a kid at all.

"I think it's about time we got these clothes off of you, Sam."

Sam nods and stands up, his erection pressing against the seam of his jeans, and wipes his face and throat clean with the towel hanging on the back of his chair. Dean pulls him in by the belt and licks up the side of his neck.

"What d'you want, Sam? Want me to suck you off?"

"Maybe." Sam bites his lip. "All I know is I want that," he points to Dean's beard, "somewhere on me. Don't care where, just wanna feel it. Feel you."

"Sammy, you kinky bastard." Dean gets Sam's belt undone and pulls his jeans down. "Huh. Commando. You're far too easy, little brother. Get on the bed. Facedown."

Sam moves to the bed and lies down. He can feel the comforter against his cock and it's almost rough. But not as rough as Dean; kissing and mouthing down the line of Sam's back until he reaches his ass, the bristles of his beard rubbing against Sam's skin until Sam feels completely sensitized.

"Hands and knees, Sam," Dean whispers, and Sam's groaning, scrambling into the position as fast as his shaking arms and legs will allow. He jumps when Dean rubs his face between Sam's legs, and it feels so dirtyhot that Sam can't even believe they're doing this, that he managed to ask for it without blushing.

Sam leans forward, his face pressed into the mattress and he gets his hands on himself, spreading himself open for Dean. He can hear Dean behind him, moving, repositioning himself and pretty soon his face is pressed up against Sam's ass. Dean hums in appreciation and drags his tongue up and down, excruciatingly slow. It feels unbelievably good, the rough drag of Dean's tongue; and when Dean's gotten Sam good and wet, he gets his chin in close and rubs while he tongues and sucks and teases Sam relentlessly.

Sam feels like he's on fire. It's so fucking intense; the burn of Dean's beard, the perfect heat and wet of his mouth. It's driving Sam crazy, and when Dean pushes his tongue inside, actually starts to fuck Sam with it, Sam drives his hips back and he's moaning and whimpering and making noises Dean will rib him for later, and he doesn't. Fucking. Care.

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean breathes against his ass, "fuck yourself on my tongue, go on."

Dean pushes in again, using his hands to spread Sam even wider for him. Sam can feel his breathing hitch, becoming more labored and he wants to come so badly it's insane. He gets one hand on his cock and starts to stroke it; rough and fast as he pushes back onto Dean's tongue. Tries to roll his hips and control it, but Dean just laughs and pulls out completely then, flipping Sam onto his back and rubbing his face up the inside of Sam's left thigh then his right, rubbing raw. Sam strokes once, twice more and he's coming so hard and long that he completely loses all sense of time, and wonders whether he's ever going to fucking stop.

When he can breathe again, he pulls Dean to him. Kisses him messy and open-mouthed and rubs his cheek against Dean's whiskers.

"I am never shaving again." Dean laughs and shakes his head at Sam. "Since when were you such a fucking wildcat in the sack, Sam? Is it just this," he points to his face, "or have you always been like that?"

No, you idiot, he wants to say. But I lost you and I got you back. Isn't that enough?

"Whatever. I like it." Dean gets up and stretches. "I'm starving. I'm thinking mounds of bacon. And pie."

Sam laughs. This is the perfect Dean response: kill things, shower, fuck like crazy and then lots and lots of food to top it all off. Sam stands up slowly, his body still not coping terribly well with the assault it's had, and he nearly falls backwards until he manages to steady himself.

"So, uh, breakfast then." Dean picks up his towel from where he left it, and gestures for Sam to join him in the bathroom. "How about after that we take a trip, Sammy? You've never been to the Grand Canyon, right?"

Sam's so fucking blissfully happy at the thought of them going away together he can't even open his mouth. He just nods, dazedly. Today is going to be a very, very good day.

***

Once they've eaten breakfast, brunch, whatever, and Dean's had his second helping of cherry pie, they stop at the gas station to fill the Impala. Once that's done, they hit the road.

It's a gorgeous day. Not too hot, but still plenty of sun. Dean puts _Appetite for Destruction_ on and cranks the volume up to twelve. Sam nods his head along to _Welcome to the Jungle_ , feeling content. Driving with Dean, the music blaring out of shitty old speakers and the constant hum of the Impala, it's like Sam's come home.

They turn onto Bloody Basin Road and Sam feels something go right through him. A shiver. He looks over at Dean who obviously hasn't felt anything, and Sam internally shrugs. It's probably nothing. Everything's good, they're happy, and Dean'll just worry if Sam mentions anything and...

"Fuck!" Sam yells, pain slicing through him. He doubles over then, clutching his stomach, and as he looks down, his hands seem to be flickering. Everything's flickering: the car, Dean, the road and Sam knows something's terribly, terribly wrong.

Dean curses under his breath and pulls over. He grabs Sam's face and holds him there. Dean's talking to him, but Sam can't hear him now, can only see his mouth opening and closing and soon he can't even see that. Everything's fading away. Dean's fading away, and Sam's reaching for him, struggling to touch him, but he can't even feel him anymore. It doesn't matter how hard he fights, something's pulling him away from Dean, from that world, _their_ world.

It's like he's dying.

He can't see or feel or hear anything tangible and his eyelids feel so damn heavy he can't keep them open. Sam wants to scream that he isn't ready! That he needs more time. That he doesn't want to leave. But he can't form the words and everything's falling away.

His eyes are closed and he doesn't know how much time passes, but when he opens them again, things are very different.

"Dean?"

Sam can't see well. Everything's a blur and he can feel himself moving in and out of consciousness, struggling to focus. He doesn't need to see perfectly to know that Dean's gone, though, and that he's not on his way to the Grand Canyon. He's back in the warehouse, and when he forces his eyes to focus, he can see Ruby; standing over him, slapping his face and gently shaking him.

"Ruby." It's hard to talk. His tongue feels thick and useless in his mouth, and his throat feels like sandpaper when he swallows. "Oh my God, Ruby. What'd you do? What'd you fucking do?"

Sam wants to cry; but he's too dehydrated, too fucking tired, and he can't even force the tears out.

"Shhhh," she says, "you're weak. Just hold still, Sam, okay?"

He feels a pinch in his neck and he remembers what Dean looked like when Sam had tracked him down to the same kind of place months ago. Needle lodged in there, siphoning his blood and the pain's sharp, intense, as Ruby pulls the thing out. It hurts so much, but more than that, Sam feels empty without it. Like he's lost a part of him. He has no idea how long he's been there now, but he's guessing it's been a day or two.

Not long enough.

Ruby cuts him down, saws through the thick rope holding him suspended with her knife and Sam crumples to the floor. He feels fragile, so damn weak, but he manages to fist his hands in her jacket and pull her face in close to his. He doesn't know if he's even capable right now, but the compulsion to shake her, to demand what the hell's going on is so strong that he can't think of anything else.

Then the room starts to spin, and Ruby's voice sounds like white noise and he doesn't remember anything after that.

***

He wakes up in the motel room, and his first thought is to reach over and shake Dean awake, tell him about the craziest dream he just had and no it wasn't clowns or midgets, but it was horrible and he never wants to have it again.

But Dean's still dead, and more's the pity, Sam isn't.

"You feeling okay?" Ruby's there of course, watching him. Sam's not used to her showing concern like this. It's unbecoming for a demon, really, and he's torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to hurt her.

"Why did you do it?" he asks, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He doesn't stand up yet, thinks he'd better do this in stages; he has no idea how long he's been out and if he's even _capable_ of standing in the first place. "Why'd you come after me? Kill the djinn? That's what you did, right? You killed it?"

"Yeah. You know why, Sam." Ruby eyeballs him. "You've got a job to do. You don't get to check out early, just because your brother’s dead."

"Yeah well, screw the job. And screw you, too." Sam's mouth is horribly dry, feels like he's swallowing glass every time he speaks, but he's fucked if he's going to ask _her_ for anything.

"You're a hunter. You need to start acting like one," she snaps at him, then huffs out a sigh. "Look, this meltdown isn't you. Time to move on. Dean's dead, and..."

He does get up, then. Stands up and crosses the room, anger and adrenaline pumping through his body and his fist colliding with her pretty little face, throwing her halfway across the room.

Ruby picks herself up off the floor, eyes flashing black and she slams him against the nearest wall. She holds him there, an invisible hand on his throat; not squeezing, just holding him in place. Ruby looks almost amused as she tongues the blood at the corner of her mouth.

"Come on, Sam." She moves in closer, getting up in his face. "Where're your manners? I saved your life."

"I never asked you to fucking save me." He spits in her face. Sam's expecting that'll make her lose her temper at least, show him that underneath it all she's just like the rest of them: evil, violent animals who need to be put down. She doesn't though, just wipes her face with the back of her hand and steps away, lets him fall, and that makes him even angrier.

"Fuck you, Ruby," he whispers, resigned. "I was happy. Why couldn’t I have had that? Couldn’t you have let me have _that_?"

"No," she says blankly, a shrug of her shoulders.

Sam wants to strangle her. Get his hands around that skinny little neck of hers and just squeeze. Wants to hold her there while he spits Latin at her and sends her ass back to hell.

"Now there's my boy." Ruby crosses her arms, and looks... satisfied. "You know why I couldn't leave you there, Sam. Taking yourself off the market isn't part of the plan. It's not your destiny. You wanna pull a Britney? Do it on your own time. You're a leader. Start acting like one."

Sam doesn't even bother protesting. He doesn't give a crap about his destiny. He's tired of hearing it and heart sore, and if she's able to read his thoughts, then why the fuck should he bother formulating complete sentences, anyway?

"I was happy," he says again.

"It wasn't real, Sam." Ruby looks almost... sorry for him, and that makes it so much worse. He'd rather she was trying to gut him from the inside, or burning him up, or anything that isn't empathetic and human. "Are you really that desperate?" she asks. "Desperate enough to die for fake memories?"

He raises an eyebrow. "What d'you think?"

Sam stands on jelly legs. He's still so weak and now that the adrenaline's worn off he's got no reserves left. He stumbles towards the bed and sits down on the edge of it. Ruby joins him, putting one hand on his knee. He doesn't move away.

"You may not think it, Sam, but I'm sorry about Dean. Guy was a pain in my ass, but I didn't hate having him around."

Sam laughs. "Yeah. He _was_ a pain in the ass, wasn't he?" He turns his face towards her, and they're so close their noses are almost touching.

Sam closes his eyes and brushes his lips against Ruby's. Her lips are soft, warm, but she doesn't kiss back, she grabs handfuls of his shirt and pushes him away so fast his head hits the wall.

"You've gotta be kidding me, Sam," she spits out. "Do I look like an idiot?"

"I. What?"

"I'm here to make you focus. The last thing you of all people need is more sex, VC Andrews." She pauses. "Besides, how are you going to get your brother back if you're stuck acting like a fuck-up?"

Sam narrows his eyes, tries to focus on what she's saying despite the fact that all he wants to do right now is sleep. His head feels like mush and he's nauseous from hitting the wall, but Ruby's talking about getting Dean back, and that's like a red rag to a bull right there.

"What d'you mean get him back?" Sam's leaning forward now, searching her eyes and he gets as much command in his voice as he can muster considering how much of a mess he is right now. "Tell me, Ruby."

"Now _that's_ better," she says."Funny how all anyone has to do is mention the D word and all of a sudden you're a different person, isn't it? I swear, you two crazy kids'll be the death of me."

" _Ruby_..."

"First we need to get you well." She stands up. "You've lost a lot of blood and your liver's screwed from all the abuse. Fuck knows what the dreamroot’s done, or whatever the hell the djinn might have put into you. And before you throw it into reverse and go back to your Sam Winchester moral crusader deal, I gotta tell you something. We're doing this _my_ way."

Ruby reaches into her pocket and pulls out a penknife, slicing from her wrist to about three inches up her forearm. Sam winces in sympathy, but Ruby doesn't even flinch.

"What are you doing? I. No, Ruby."

"Relax, Sam. It's just a little blood." She trails her finger through it and holds it up to his mouth. "It'll help you heal."

Sam knows he shouldn't even consider it. Shouldn't be taking any more into him when he doesn't even know how Azazel's blood has affected him in the first place, but he knows he will. It isn't the first stupid, morally gray thing he's done in the weeks since Dean died, and it won't be the last.

He opens his mouth and sucks her finger inside. The taste is heady, but there isn't enough of it, it's merely a drop.

"Good boy," Ruby purrs, offering her arm to him. "Don't worry about being gentle. I can take it."

"Oh, I won't." Sam grips her arm and brings it to his mouth. Licks at the red oozing out from the cut, removes the excess with his tongue. He can taste the bitter tang rolling around in his mouth and it's euphoric. Ruby's blood's drugging him, he can feel it and he sucks at the wound, trying to get more from it. Trying to make it last.

She sighs, head thrown back and Sam feels ridiculously powerful now, like he could do anything. Like he could drag Dean out of hell himself, with his bare hands.

"That's enough," Ruby growls, tearing her arm away from his mouth. "Don't want you to get a taste for it, Sam, who knows what might happen then." She sounds like she's daring him, and maybe she is. Maybe this is all part of her grand plan, whatever it might be. He really doesn't care though. All he cares about now is getting Dean back, and he hopes this isn't just another one of her manipulations designed to reel him in.

The effect of the blood is instant and he can tell right away it's working. He's stronger already, can almost feel Ruby's DNA meshing with his. Can sense that it's healing him; manufacturing new, perfect blood cells, healing his liver and fixing the weeks of malnutrition and neglect. He feels healthier than he has in a long time.

"You look it, too," she says. "Take a shower and we'll talk more over breakfast. I feel like I haven't eaten in days."

She slaps his ass when he walks past her on his way to the bathroom. Sometimes Ruby reminds him just a little too much of Dean.


	5. Epilogue

***

He doesn't dream about Dean. Not anymore. In fact, he doesn't dream at all, just sleeps deep and uninterrupted until he wakes up at 7.30 like clockwork. He wakes up on his own now; doesn't need an alarm blasting music in his ear, or irritating pip-tones to rouse him from sleep like he used to.

Once he's up, Sam makes his bed, brushes his teeth with basic, minty toothpaste and showers. It takes him fifteen minutes now, exactly fifteen and not a second over. Anything more than that and it's waste. Sam doesn't waste anything anymore, especially not time.

Whenever Dean and he had come across other hunters before, Sam would hear them whisper among themselves, words dripping with respect, "Those are John Winchester's boys. John was the best, God rest his soul."

Now when other hunters cross Sam's path, they don't whisper. They just get the hell out of his way.

Sometimes, when he gets injured particularly badly, Ruby comes by and feeds him. It satiates and nourishes him, makes him strong, keeps him focused. Sam thinks that he's probably more demon than human now, but that's not really a concern.

Sam doesn't feel guilty about harming innocents anymore. Ruby told him once that there's a cost for some things, that if it's important enough, nothing else matters. She was right, and it just gets easier and easier the more he does it.

Sam used to feel too much. Now he doesn't feel anything at all.

He doesn't drink anymore, and he doesn't have sex. He doesn't even jerk off. None of it helps, they're all distractions, and Sam is nothing if not completely and utterly focused on his goals.

Hunt. Kill. Find the Trickster. Save Dean. Everything else is irrelevant.

 

 

 

the end

**Author's Note:**

> I had so much help with this story, more than I ever have with anything else I've written, and forgive me because this got LONG.
> 
> The whole seed of this story idea came about in girlmostlikely's Accidental Porn Meme. lemmealone came up with a fabulous prompt which involved Sam invading Dean's sex dreams using the dreamroot, and I wrote a porny ficlet which instantly sparked thoughts of something longer, and angstier.
> 
> At first the idea was to have Dean going into Sam's dreams, post-Mystery Spot (an episode that had affected me more than any other)to find out what was going through his brother's head. But then I started thinking about how much I wanted to write a Sam POV piece starting with Dean's death and covering the mourning period, where Sam just wanted to give in, deliberately tracking down the djinn and going into the Wishverse with the intention of dying in there.
> 
> So, the two ideas ended up being combined, thanks to several late-night plotting sessions with veronamay who then audienced the fic in its various stages of completion, as well as serving as my initial beta. She puts up with my run-ons and comma splices with the patience of a saint, and is also the best cheerleader a girl could ask for.
> 
> I had several other betas along the way, rejeneration who really helped me shape the fic and helped me get rid of all those niggling britishisms, strippedpink whose enthusiasm was infectious, and whose insight into Sam and his journey was absolutely invaluable, and arabella_hope who saw it last and whose fresh eyes came up with things that made me go 'duh!' a lot.
> 
> A whole bunch of dear friends were kind enough to read the thing at various times along the way and reassure me: alwayseven, rei_c, lemmealone, jamesinboots, and dontyouwaitup. Oh and my darling F, of course.
> 
> wordplay__'s amazing video blows me AWAY, and helped me get through the editing process so easily. Honey, you did such an incredible job, and I feel so damn lucky that you picked me again this year, and completely innocently too! Thank you for bringing my story to life in such a creative and gorgeous way.
> 
> I've babbled enough. OMG if you made it to the end of this essay masquerading as author notes, you deserve a medal!


End file.
